


Polis

by joethelion



Series: Polis [1]
Category: The 100, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon/Divergent Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, ClexaWeek2017, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Parallel Universes, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 131,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joethelion/pseuds/joethelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That one will destroy you, Heda, before my mother does,” Roan says.</p><p>A vast, sentient power rises to offer them salvation and the end of pain. For Raven, it means fables are true and resurrection is possible. For Lexa, it means a second apocalypse and probable death. It doesn't help that Clarke wants to kill her first.</p><p>Raven knows that normal people don't fall in love like this. Not that she's normal. She kind of wishes someone in this group of idiots was normal. Abby is alarmingly beautiful, for example. Meanwhile, John Murphy is still everyone's fave problematic asshole son. And there's a backpack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Praise the God of All, drink the Wine, let the World be the World._  - French Proverb.

* * *

 

“That one will destroy you,  _Heda_ , before my mother does,” Roan says.

Lexa stands in the flickering shadows of a utilitarian, well-appointed room. The light of hanging torch lamps shifts across her face, changing it, a different landscape every time she moves. He'll never really tire of watching her. Roan’s enforced stay isn’t without luxuries.

“If she regains her strength and challenges me or turns down the Coalition, she’ll die.” Lexa will have to assassinate her if Clarke refuses her call for aid—by all their laws she won’t be allowed to live.

He takes that in easily and pretends like he isn't going to drown in the politics he's helped set in motion.

“What can I do for you, Commander? I have no wine to offer.” He raises his shackled hands and gives her the magisterial dip of his head; a sardonic honored protocol between near equals. His bleeding has stopped, and his wounds have been treated; gauze holds a poultice to his side. He’s been fed, and his strength is back.

“I could invoke sanctuary,” he taunts her gently, “you are the Commander of the Coalition.”

“Like Costia did?” The question is so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it. He waits politely for her to repeat herself, and when she doesn’t, he raises his eyes to hers, and she sees compassion there, pity; and something else she refuses to name, not yet.

* * *

It’s twilight.

Of course, it’s just shadows and fading light. It might be the waiting that makes her dream. It’s the stillness surrounding her before the forest comes alive. An owl skims the glade. Clarke has two idle, drifting memories while she hunts.

One’s her own story after a year in isolation when there was nothing to do in her prison cell on the Ark  _but_  dream, and the other is an earlier question she asked her father about Earth from before the Fall.

 _"I felt the sun on my face. I see trees all around me, scented wildflowers on a breeze. It's so beautiful. In this moment I'm not stranded in space. It's been 97 years since a nuclear apocalypse killed everyone on earth, leaving the planet simmering in radiation. Fortunately, there were survivors. Twelve nations had operational space stations at the time of the bombs. There is now only the Ark, one station forged from the many. We're told the earth needs another hundred years to become survivable again. Four more space-locked generations and man can go back to the ground. The ground, that's the dream._   _This is reality. Reality sucks.”_

 _…_ She asks Jake about visiting new places because she visits places in her mind, in her art, but a new place, terrain, a real one?

_“Hey Kiddo, I’ve never done a walkabout. No one on the Ark has done that.” Jake says. Clarke nudges him lightly with her foot._

_“Want to know what I would do?” Abby looks up briefly from her med charts, "I would listen."_

_“That's all?” Clarke hums._

_“Yeah. Good one, babe, me too. I would listen,” Jake says, wiping his glasses and settling back. “I mean, listen to what that place is saying. I would walk around in it forever before I ever spoke a word. Be respectful, and then this new place, I hope, would open up to me.”_   

_He smiles and winks. Then her father gets up and kisses her mother roundly._

_"Ew, you guys. Stop"_

* * *

This  _place_ —where her body touches the ground—feels intrinsically powerful and filled with magic. It feels like the first time she stepped out into the sunlight, into the immeasurable cathedral of trees, under a deep blue sky, and dug her hand into the fragrant life of the planet. She’d felt  _something_.

That was the first thing Octavia had done, she’d run and knelt down, raised her face to the sky.  _It smells so good here. The air is warm silk._

“ _The face of God,_ " Jaha says later. But she pushes him and that idea away and out of her mind as an illusion. Because, sure. Within days she’d also experienced terror and anger so hopeless it crushed her. Wells had protected her. Her mother had put her trust in Jaha and inadvertently killed her father. And Wells was dead within the first three days, for all his trust and care.

That’s what this world has become, just the days and death. Things get dark then, in her head, under the first glimmer of moonlight even as the mountain peaks surrounding her glow with it.

Her hands, when she looks at them, are shaking. There’s blood caked under her fingernails, in the lines of her palms. It’s her own blood; she’s got enough small lacerations everywhere from living wild like this for so long that it’s an everyday occurrence. She flinches.  _If only_  it was her own blood.

She digs her knife so deeply into her skin that the sudden pain whites out her mind. Endorphins course through her veins. She relaxes again, and the cat comes.

It’s a huge South American Black Panther, ancestors possibly stranded after the Fall and migrated here, she knows that from Earth Skills and holy shit is it gorgeous. The wind shifts, and the animal scents only the small rabbit, no foreign smells. Clarke is upwind. The panther huffs and moves forward. And then it turns and gazes straight into the shadows, growling softly.

The cat crouches and springs and pain explodes across Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke yelps as she’s thrown backward, her serrated knife taking a huge gouge of flesh and hair with it. The cat pounces and its claws rakes down her back and she rolls away grunting in agony unable to reach the vulnerable belly of the animal. She lies stunned. The beast spins quickly on her haunches and hisses, roaring, and exposes inches long canines.

The cat looks at her for a long time, signaling a constant rumbling warning low in it's chest, and then, like the heartbreaking betrayal she can’t forget, the cat blinks once and turns away from her, padding gracefully silently back into the great darkness beyond.

* * *

_My people believe that when you kill someone, you get their power._

She wakes with a start, breathing hard. Her heart racing. 

_“The cat got the worst of it.” Niylah laughs softly tracing her neck and shoulder, and says, “No kill marks.”_

_The wet cloth and poultice feel good on the wound. Clarke hesitates briefly, sighs._

_“My back's not big enough,” Clarke says._

_“Tell me about the mountain.”_

_“There's nothing to tell. I did what I had to do. That’s all.” Clark shifts to look at the trader._

_“That's all? You killed our greatest enemy. You wiped them out by yourself.”_

_“Niylah,” Clarke closes her eyes._

Her head hurts. Her back  _should_  hurt, after what the animal did to her—the pain actually helps her focus. But the growing pressure behind her eyes, the questions, the memories scare her and bring her that much closer to falling apart. She feels exposed in a way that she can’t handle; the animal didn’t think she was worth anything. The animal thought she didn’t have enough life in her.

With each day away from Mount Weather she gets stronger. She’s pantomiming this predatory, wakeful state. But  _god_ , she needs something right now.

She turns, ratcheting up the pain in her shoulder blade, and stares at the trader. Niylah, to her credit, seems slightly charmed, welcoming and then turns away. She only hesitates a moment, but she does turn away.

Clarke leans in and takes the other woman’s hand, which she had withdrawn in easy deference to Clarke’s request, and then slips her other hand up around Niylah’s neck. Every instinct in Clarke’s body tells her to keep someone. To see if someone will stay with her. Clarke pulls her into a heated kiss. 

She lowers Niylah down underneath her own body, pleasure starting to glide across her skin, under and inside her bloodstream. Her muscles stretch and her desire overwhelms her. This woman is vibrant and beautiful; her tongue is warm against Clarke’s, stroking, drawing her in with strong, even pulses.

She smells of the forests and the firelight and the furs surrounding them. Clarke’s stomach tightens—she's so warm and alive. She pulls away and sits astride her to tug her destroyed clothes off, she's suddenly so hot, she's desperate to be naked in the night air pressed against the other woman's cooler skin. Niylah arches beneath her, watching.

* * *

It’s still dark when Abby comes for Raven, the winds are picking up and Abby wants to get an early start. They slip outside the gates, waving to the sentries, and wander towards the meadows east of Arkadia. David Miller, head of Abby’s personal guard, eventually joins the two women in easy conversation—turns out he's a gardener.

Raven’s favoring her leg, their pace is slow; and it’s alright because the morning promises to be beautiful. Abby gathers medicinal herbs. Raven's on the look out for the hallucinogenic berries because “Jasper wants to make a tincture or whatever”. It’s fine going out, barely tolerable coming back. The amount of work associated with being inside those gates is crushing. Raven knows Abby thinks about which way Clarke might have walked away after a few miles on the access road. There are 360 degrees of choices to pick. When Abby looks into the woods, Raven knows whom she’s searching for.

The three of them enjoy what they can and talk quietly about nothing really.

She’s been sweating herself raw at night, twisted in her soaked sheets, reaching around in the dark for something,  _anything_  to keep the nausea and pain at bay. She drinks as much moonshine as she can, whatever’s in reach on her side table to calm down—the new haul from the stores of Mount Weather. Or she takes the painkillers Jackson reluctantly prescribes when Abby isn’t looking. Raven redresses her own wound. She even giggles about it, after the drugs set in, because  _what_?  _Murphy shot her, that’s crazy._

Abby has scars all over her back from the shocklash. The psychic scars are at least as bad as Raven’s and Raven resents the unrelenting concern from someone who won’t admit her own fragility. Abby and Clarke’s reunion was bizarre even to the most casual observer; so emotionally fraught Raven actually can’t think about it without getting anxious. But Clarke’s deliberate disappearance has made Abby focused and angry. And everyone is scrambling to find the Chancellor’s daughter. These mornings together are a respite.

Because there are other things to do immediately, like reconstructing power grids, building the radios and repairing just about everything. Last week she was laying pipe along the access roads. Since no one has tried to kill anyone else for a few days, months now, building infrastructure and helping Wick and Sinclair have taken up most of her energy.

When Abby hauled off and slapped her for helping Clarke run a recon outside the camp, against Abby’s explicit orders, she simply let the sting wash over her, raising her eyes to Abby with resigned pity and then, she set Abby straight—because that’s what they did for each other. But Mount Weather changed the whole world for everyone. She should have paid more attention. Raven wonders if they'll ever be as honest with each other again. if tey can.

_“Did you know?”_

_Raven’s head snaps back with the blow and then she shakes off the burn on her cheek like it’s nothing, like she hasn’t been slapped around a million times before as a kid._

_“She stopped being a kid the day you sent her down here to die,” Raven says, evenly._

_Abby stares at her, still leaning across the table—more shocked by her action than Raven is—and then sinks down in her chair, and they sit together. Abby’s stare is bleak. Raven expects to be backhanded again and doesn’t even care at that point, she’s so sad and exhausted._

She likes Clarke, she does, but Clarke is infuriating.

_Later on that night, after drinking themselves silly Raven asks, “Would you have hit Clarke if it was me out there?”_

_Abby’s expression and voice are soft with warmth and alcohol, “Of course not, you’re not my daughter.”_

Raven’s blood basically turns to fire but she doesn’t ask her what that means. If Abby sees her at all, it’s all she wants.

She’s also caught herself looking, she traces Abby’s physical scars with her eyes, idly taking in smoothly muscled, sun-kissed skin when Abby’s shirt rides up or they meet randomly in the brand new shower area Wick engineers. Everyone is always in those showers now; it makes everyone giddy so really it’s not like she seeks her out or anything.

They both lived through Mount Weather and the bone marrow harvest. Abby screamed as Raven threw up everything in her stomach from the pain, still strapped to the table. Abby watched as Wick dragged Raven up off the operating theater and cradled her in his arms, and then when Kane took Abby’s own mangled body to his chest and held her there—her face was covered in tears she didn’t feel—she was gone, in shock. She hadn't passed out like Raven did. She was awake.

Marcus tells Raven later that the look on Abby’s face was indescribable, and Raven feels actively afraid for the first time since the descent in the drop ship—since free-fall she’s been filled with nothing but exhilaration—even with her back and leg troubling her. She just powers through all of it until she pictures what Kane describes. She remembers that she had sought out Abby’s eyes—Abby’s kind soul—through the unspeakable pain, up until she faints—and she breaks.

She didn’t break after Finn. But she’s in freefall now, after the Mountain. Not one of them can suppress or escape the knowledge that they have killed someone—not a single one.

* * *

That reality, the thing she can’t argue with, stands in stark relief to the burgeoning waking sense of being studied, categorized by a curiously light touch, like wind rising across a lake.

A vital field and intangible influence moves across the waters—exclusive to extremely advanced computational algorithms—she’s not a poet but she intuits near perfection in things, ideals—so the slightly invasive quality is no more than a nuisance. It’s happening so often she’s straight up craving consensual reality more often than not—the one where she fixes things and makes communication devices and has bickers with Wick. She used to dream about spacewalks and data and logic puzzles, physics, science, and equations.  _Fixing things._

Raven probably also unconsciously watches the dark, breathing forests for any sign of Clarke, because Abby has no time, as CMO and Chancellor. Abby’s so tired she sometimes just repeats things stupidly and leaves Kane to sort it out.

She takes walks at night to the far perimeters of the camp and falls in love with the warm, smooth burn of jerry-rigged alcohol. Jasper is a complete mess, so she just lifts the bottles off of him after he collapses every night.

She maps the stars. She thinks about hard vacuum, the smell of ozone and deep cold.

She knows the stars.

She’s walked in space surrounded by the night stars, tumbling and freezing right into the vast nothing, all of silence. She’s safe and free of the 12 Stations, she focuses on those fixed luminous points in the night sky—the sun, a large, remote, incandescent body enters her, claims her, and she lives there in her mind more often than not. She never really came back from that. No one who’s been out there does.

To pass the time, she reads whatever she can get her hands on from the collections of books taken from the storage levels and libraries of Mount Weather and focuses on transforming the vehicles from the Garage into something useful, something that moves, something that has inherent power and speed and life—nothing to do with grief, and nothing to do with the pain that’s steadily wracking her body.

She experiences terrible fevers—scorched earth flash-fires—the direct result of her deteriorating condition.

In her spare time, whenever that is, she teases and talks to Bellamy. He teaches her some basic weaponry and has a weird, broody sense of humor but she kind of loves him. She enjoyed the sex. And she does like him.

So when the alien consciousness rises to greet her, tearing at the illusionary seams of her selfhood—her subconscious just opens itself like a book—she has no defenses against this, so she rationalizes.

She doesn’t want to think too deeply about it because it’s pleasurable, and she does agree with the inquisitive Intelligence she’s come to know slightly. _After thousands of years of endings, empires rising and falling. We’re still ridiculous, fighting each other again, demanding food, territories, going to war—like this world is ours. Like some kind of Manifest Destiny._  

 _Tell me what it’s like,_  was Jaha’s first question to Abby when she stepped out and onto Earth’s ground and touched her hand to the dirt.

These are just visions—chemical and neurological misfires and constructs—she knows them and has experienced them all her life; sustaining and always, always based in her reality of empirical data, and physics, and her soaring intellect. 

These are not the kind of visions that Jaha went off the rails about. His faith was literal, a living thing—a deity-filled heaven with no vacuum. You could live on his faith without needing a Primary Life Support Subsystem, food or air. And he left with a bunch of Arkers and Murphy to find a City of Light—no one's heard from them since.

Raven experiences the curious, almost warm explorations of her consciousness as an unavoidable rush of adrenaline. It feels like what Lincoln described when he finally talks about the Reaper serum—the craving and addiction. It’s like the vast universe she has irrevocably fallen in love with since she was a little girl, has come to pay a visit. Given her an inheritance, the one that lays out all the laws and a mathematical, quantum weirdness and beauty. All she has to do is welcome it. This presence is  _Other_ ; she never gives it permission to come, but it does.

The  _Other_ is generally a very benevolent presence and shows no wish to supplant her own consciousness or dominate her neural processes, but Raven doesn't appreciate the unauthorized scrutiny. She doesn't like what it's downloading, either.

Her dreams are populated with increasingly disastrous geo-political scenarios she supposes comes from her new reading material—or it could be the multi-tonal intelligence. She reads it and her trances parrot it all back in a maelstrom. The actual material of the REM sleep is all in the ancient newspapers.

She had to read some of it twice because the morphine was hitting her pretty hard right then. She believes herself on this one. It’s right there in the fine print; an exegesis of human arrogance. The apocalypse was practically programmed into their species—a death drive, a will to annihilation.

She might be okay and not crazy and emotionally stunted—these visitations might be just her processing through her experiences the best she can— and she’s due to make another search and rescue run to Sector 7 to find Clarke, again.

The last time Raven helped Abby find Clarke, the whole thing ended with her pod crash-landing, the Ark crash-landing and everything crashing and here they are and everything is pretty much ridiculous. Clarke found her. Finn in a record total of ten days fell in love with Clarke (and Raven loved him, but what a moron) and Raven gets to fall to Earth and land in the middle of the most idiotic love triangle imaginable.

She remembers it. It sends a soft shiver through her heart. She knows when it happened. Abby was watching her, her expression unreadable. _They might not even be alive. No one can tell anymore_ —the kids are just blinking out one by one. Clarke is not transmitting.

When Raven just rolls her eyes after giving the wristband a cursory once-over and says, “They’re not dead, they’re taking them off.” Abby looks at her in a way that Raven can’t name.

She will go with Abby to the ground. That's the deal. They will find Finn and Clarke together.

She sees the same fervor in Abby’s eyes. Abby looks at Raven with a calm kind of hunger that actually gave her chills. Raven has only felt that out beyond the airlocks, in the firmament.

* * *

_“The bullet is pressing on your spine,” Abby says, “If we leave it in, you’ll never walk again.”_

_“The surgery could kill you. We have no equipment, we have no anesthesia. You’d feel everything._ ” Abby’s steady, barely.

She’s watching Finn too, over Raven’s shoulder, begging the boy to talk some sense into this brave, startling young woman she’s beginning to need more than anyone.

It’s Finn who takes her hand. It’s Abby who leans over her, stroking her head. It’s Abby who murmurs, “ _We’re almost ready.”_

" _Oh,_ " Finn gasps, softly, and watches as Raven's eyes focus on him slowly.

* * *

She gets hauled into a scouting mission to explore Sector 7. She rounds the corner just in time to see Gina being awesome and giving Bellamy a nice gift, a book, the  _Iliad_. Bellamy is possibly a big classics nerd.

“She’s too good for you,” Raven teases. 

 _Oh, my God. Shut up._ Bellamy sighs.

The crew today is Bellamy, Jasper (worse for wear, broken, nursing a bitch of a hangover but coherent for once), Monty, and Miller.

Octavia wheels her horse around, and thunders away, and suddenly it is the best day in Raven’s recent memory. She guns the engine and tears after Octavia through fields, along the access road, and deep into the surrounding outlands, laughing at the sheer speed and freedom. She’s pretty much just relieved that she wasn’t as deep into freefall as she thought she was.

Last night's moonshine is out of her system for the day and she can breath. There’s the constant dull throb in her leg. She’s outfitted this thing with a sound system and auxiliary jack; it’s pretty badass. They end up singing at the top of their lungs like idiots. She’s not feeling great physically but she sings. She’s driving her very own by-hand-reconstructed modified RV.

* * *

The bounty hunter growls, throws the last of the _Azgeda_ scouts away from him, and charges after the wild, golden-haired girl.

He catches up to by the riverbed, and she’s turned and is watched him cover the rest of the twenty paces; his head is down, silent and—is he laughing? She lowers her bound arms to meet him.

His speed and mass knocks her off her feet and sends both of them tumbling into the freezing water, Clarke tries to wrap her hands on his throat, he holds her wrists in a vise-strong grip as they roll across the shallows. The bounty hunter rolls on top of her, letting gravity do most of the work and she’s under water, gasping for air, purchase, anything. Nearly frozen fingers curve around his upper arms, weak, ineffectual.

“You surprise me,” he whispers through a grimace, and rolls her to one side, tumbling both of them out of the running, freezing water back into what little weak sun there is. “No one surprises me.”

Clarke claws back to the surface of consciousness and she’s hauled up and staggers to her feet. The man is also rising slowly. Thoughtfully.

And then he throws her away from him and sends her crashing into the almost frozen over river. She gets to her knees, her feet, and he blinks stupidly at her, unbelieving. She stumbles towards him, uncoordinated, barely able to see through the ignored hypothermia. He steps back and lets her come. She staggers to her knees and drops over, exhausted. 

He doesn’t react right away. He rubs distractedly at his shoulder, muscles easing.

“You don’t listen,” he says.

And then he slaps her gently awake.

* * *

_Clarke is bound and battered, dizzy with thirst. Her exhaustion is total. She’s staggered against the wall where he threw her, sliding down to the relative comfort of the mud and tiled floor. The bounty hunter is covered in her blood and his own. He curses under his breath and tears at his shirt. Pitches his gear next to her._

_He stumbles away and lights a fire, heats his blade._

_“Another inch and I’d be dead.” He mutters, “Maybe you’re not the Commander of Death after all.”_  

_“You’re Ice Nation. Why are you hiding from your own people? Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Clarke wonders at how steady her voice is._

_He takes his knife out of the flames and tests it once; cauterizes his wound with the heated blade. His back is to Clarke or she would have seen him flinch. He’s human._

_He sighs, “Why’d you run away from yours?”_

_He walks over to the girl and holds the blade millimeters from her cheek, “Mountain slayer.”_

_“I’m no one.”_

_The knife dips lower to her neck, she can feel the heat, pulls helplessly away from it—there’s nowhere to go, “Doubt that. Too many people looking for no one. You abandoned them, your people. No courage.”_

_Clarke bares her teeth at that, gets herself under control just as quickly. “Like you’re so different. You’re in disguise, same as me. You’re on the run, same as me. In the wilderness, same as me.”_

_“I was banished. Nothing like you. You had a choice.”_

* * *

She begs him for Bellamy’s life. She sees the surprise and curiosity spark in the bounty hunter’s eyes. She’s never begged for anything so absolutely, since Lexa, since Mount Weather, but her mind veers sharply away from that—too close to psychosis. It would be so easy to finally let herself go.

The words come tearing out of her. She offers up everything for Bellamy, her voice hoarse with terror,  _“I’ll do anything, I’ll stop fighting. Just please don’t kill him.”_

She recognizes herself finally,  _finally_  in that desperate litany, and the awareness is miraculous. A flare of gold in her heart.

This is tiresome. She can’t see anything. The burlap over her head lets in light and air, but otherwise, she’s blind and being dragged roughly through hallways and down endless corridors. She’s bleeding out. Her injury isn’t blood; it’s light and hope. Her trance is breaking anyway.

If she thought she was at her breaking point when he stabbed Bellamy in the leg and hauled her out again into the open by her leash to continue their journey, she was mistaken. When she stumbles, barely conscious, her captor stops and with surprising gentleness lets her catch her breath. She can feel him through her skin crushing a surge of sympathy for her.

“Not long now,” his voice is subdued.

She hears the guards leading them stop and turn. He takes her by the back of her neck before he strides forward again. She notes absently that he moves like the mountain lions she stalked, a snow leopard.

By the change in the quality of the air and what little sound she can hear, she’s now in a larger room. It’s brightened considerably; all her senses alert. She feels him pause before entering with her—his hand’s pressure oddly gentle—and she feels his whole body’s attitude change through that peculiar gesture. He becomes the predator he is.

It’s just a moment in time, and then she’s hauled by the scruff and walked easily all the way into the room.

“ _Wanheda_ , as promised.” His hand moves down to her mid-back and pushes her roughly to her knees. It’s almost a postscript to his entrance; she’s a sack of food, an offering.

Her captor certainly isn’t without a sense of theater. He waits for what he considers a dramatic number of seconds before lifting her hood from her head.

The sudden blast of sun blinds her; she turns her head to adjust and then retraces, vision blurry, to the backlit figure seated on the throne before her. That figure unfolds slowly and stands; iridescent coronas flare out and cause her body to become negative space. Until it doesn’t.

“Hello, Clarke." 

Clarke’s nerves and mind shatter, she stops breathing.

Lexa moves then, slowly descends the stairs leading to her seat of power. Clarke blinks once, the startling ice blue of her eyes wide and disbelieving. She unconsciously leans away as Lexa approaches. Underneath Clarke’s shock and helpless prostration, something stirs—it feels like heat. It’s there and gone, because the next words out of Lexa’s mouth are incomprehensible.

“The deal was for you to bring her to me unharmed,” A barely contained fury seeps through Lexa’s implacable presence.

“She didn’t come easy,” he says.

Lexa lowers her eyes again to Clarke. “No, I expect not,” Lexa murmurs. 

“Nothing to do with me. Honor our deal.” 

“Your Mother marches on Polis; I’ll honor the deal when she honors my Coalition.”

Clarke snaps around and stares at the man who’s been her brutal, slightly exasperated travel companion for the last few horrifying days, She’s finally back in what’s actually happening in the room—she’s been  _gone_  since she lost Bellamy again.

Her entire being is aware of who her captor  _is_. Absurdly she wants to beg him to take her again and get her far away from here where they both can be safe. As it stands she sees the look in his eyes, and that’s enough to settle her. It brings her back into herself, into her own savagery. 

“Take Prince Roan of  _Azgeda_  to his rooms.”

Clarke watches him wide-eyed. He tilts his head intimately to her, and her alone. He gives her a fleeting smile, so small a gesture she can’t be sure it was there, and then he’s led away.

Clarke raises her eyes again to the Commander and stares balefully at her. All shock is gone—there’s only hate. A hate so pure she is completely unmade, she’s suffused with promise—she tastes blood again in her own heart—her breathing comes slow and easy. 

The Commander sends everyone out of the room. “Lift her up,” she says to the remaining guards.

Lexa’s imperiousness falls away. She approaches Clarke and says—with an infinite reserve of care—what came before was all protocol and statecraft, “I’m sorry.”

She reaches out and gently pulls the gag from Clarke's mouth. “It had to be this way. I had to ensure  _Wanheda_  didn’t fall into the hands of the Ice Queen.”

Clarke gathers herself, straightens.

_Like Costia._

“War is coming, Clarke. I need you.”

The moment lands. Lexa traces over her with rough, warm hands. She checks her for injuries. Lexa really looks at her. A swath of healed lacerations cover Clarke’s face, and her eyes—her eyes are rimmed with red and filled with eradication, absolute obliteration, and endings. Clarke looks ferocious. She has hundreds of souls and their deaths in her eyes.

Clarke spits in her face and explodes, rages at Lexa.

She finally lets the massive darkness and sadness that always stalks her roll through her; she welcomes it as she’s wrenched away roughly and dragged from the room. 

_I am become death, the destroyer of worlds._

* * *

When the beacon from Farm Station goes off they cut the music and shift the mission. Section 8 is  _Azgeda_ , Ice Nation. It’s a potentially dangerous area, but terms are firmly, for now, in place. It’s been quiet for months. Miller’s boyfriend is there in that Sector, and Monty is from Farm Station. Protocol demands they go back and let Abby decide what to do. 

Bellamy shakes his head after some back and forth with Monty and Miller, “Screw protocol.”

Three Grounders stop them along the road, and she feels helpless, useless, she can’t maneuver worth shit and her reflexes are slowing. Raven shifts her weight and sits so her leg lies along the interior of the RV, across the seat Jasper’s suddenly vacated, and then she turns to face the scenario straight ahead.

Above the small group of three  _Azgeda_  scouts, there are mountains glittering far ahead, snow-capped. She’d rather stare at this view than witness or participate in what’s probably going to unfold in front of her soon enough because nothing is ever easy and everything always goes horrific fast and things blow up and people die. 

“It’s okay, I got this,” Jasper says. He starts forward. 

“Raven, you stay in the Rover,” Bellamy says, following Jasper out. Um, yeah. nope. She grabs her weapon and hops down as best she can, careful to protect her hip, standing down for now. She watches Jasper haul himself right up to one of them, maybe the leader. They’re terrifying, covered in white paint. They look like wraiths.

“Tell them we observe the Commander’s truce. Do it  _now._ ”

Octavia speaks to the scouts in Trigedasleng. What the hell is a  _Wanheda_?

Jasper glares up at the warrior, plucks the beacon from the Scout’s hand like it’s a lollipop. “This belongs to us.”

And before anyone can do anything Jasper’s got a knife to his throat, and he’s  _laughing_. The knife is slicing through his throat and blood starts to spill down his neck, soaking his collar and hair, smearing across his shirt. Jasper smiles through the whole thing, lit up with pain and mania. He’s enjoying this.

Someone should have kept him in camp in a chilly space stacked along one wall with firewood wrapped in a blanket feeding him oatmeal and other mild things. He’s so small, and she hears him, astonishingly, start to hum and giggle to himself. Raven gets a dizzy thrill watching him, just for a minute—she can understand him a bit and certainly doesn’t judge him. She would love to go batshit insane for a day, like all the way. They all should be able to do that. They’ve earned it.

Bellamy steps forward and takes the shot. Raven fires on them from behind him and Octavia finishes it. The acrid smoke of gunpowder fills the air, and they stand there in the sudden silence surrounded by a hissing sun shower and a rising mist, knowing they hadn’t kept up their end of the truce or honored the rules of engagement.

Bellamy’s radio crackles to life, and he goes back and forth with Kane for a few minutes. Raven’s stomach keeps lurching every time she sees Jasper’s face with that crazy smile. The rest of them wait until Bellamy announces they’re splitting up. Bellamy and Monty are taking the jeep to meet Kane.

“Take him home,” Bellamy says. 

“I'm fine. Thank you for asking,” Jasper wheezes after a second.

“Miller... “ Bellamy ignores Jasper. “Get one of their horses. Raven, since you can't ride, you're on the back.”

Raven feels so overwhelmed, out of nowhere. The shade she’s standing in makes everything cold, the light thin. She looks up again into the black, roiling clouds of the already disappearing storm, up into the blue sky towards the distant mountains and sighs.

* * *

Indra is not comfortable,  _at all,_ in this enclosed vehicle.

“Don’t worry,” Kane says cheerfully. “I’m still getting used to it myself.”

Indra grunts and settles in, resigned. Monty informs them that they are almost out of range and asks if Kane’s sure he doesn’t want to tell the Chancellor.

“I’m sure. I don’t want to worry Abby until we know something.” That seems to placate everyone. No one is really going to gainsay whatever Kane says at this point but the inclusive back and forth is nice, normalizing. Hooray for consensus. No one wants to ask what Indra’s doing there, either. 

Bellamy asks some kind of question, finally. Kane answers him immediately, “We know there’s a kill order.”

“You people are big on those,” Bellamy snots at Indra.

Indra ignores him, for the most part. She looks out the window and then turns to him, “It’s not a kill order. It’s a bounty. Clarke’s a symbol. She’s known as  _Wanheda_.” She translates for them, “The Commander of Death.”

“The Ice Nation guys we killed asked about  _Wanheda_. They're looking for Clarke. Why?”

“My people believe that when you kill someone, you get their power.” Indra says, “Kill  _Wanheda_ , and you command death.” 

“She's just one girl,” Kane says.

“So was the Commander.” Indra shrugs. What is wrong with these people? “What Clarke did at Mount Weather weakened the Commander. The Ice Nation is emboldened. Their queen wants Clarke's power.” 

The interior of the car falls silent. Finally, they seem to be listening. Indra continues, “If her people believe she has it, she'll break the coalition and start a war. I can't let that happen.”

* * *

When Clarke wakes she's alone.

She had rampaged long into the night, her memory fuzzy, but she knows she allowed herself free reign. She howled until her voice was gone, desperate for release of some kind. She would be the cause of the Commander’s death. Blood for blood.

Guards come for her and force a foul tasting liquid down her throat when she fights them. They hold her down to do it; she manages to injure one of them before oblivion takes her.

She’s naked in a soft bed, bathed and clean. She catalogues her whole body and assesses the time of day. Her shoulder has been washed and tended to. Her hair smells of some soft, fragrant oils. Her skin is clear of any dirt or blood. Her muscles ache dully; they should be screaming at her in discomfort, but they must have given her something for that, too.

She swings herself slowly upright and listens to bird song, feels the soft breeze through the room. She flexes her bare feet—the parallel to the quarantine ward in Mount Weather is too much for her to handle really, so she shuts that train of thought down. There are clothes laid out for her on a chair within reach. She gets up; wrapping one of the bedding furs around her and checks the door. It’s not locked.

“Clarke.”

Clarke stills for only a moment, shuts the door and turns towards the Commander. She’s looking out one of the windows, her back to her. Why she didn’t see her there, she’ll never know. Clarke tightens the fur around her and walks over to her, stands just beyond reach.

“How long have I slept.”

“Two days.” Lexa turns, “Let me attend you.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two days.”

Clarke begins to speak, and the Commander cuts her off, “Stop it. You don’t have the strength for this.”

It’s true. Clarke feels weak as a baby.

The Commander takes her hand and leads her over to the bed, “Sit.”

Clarke slips her hand away and does not sit. What she does do is unhurriedly sink to her knees in mockery of Lexa’s request. Lexa draws in a sharp breath, moves to arrest her descent. Her eyes never leave the Commander.

“Stay away from me,” Clarke says without stress, peaceful.

Lexa watches in alarm. Clarke is telegraphing a need, the barest invitation hidden in untroubled scorn. Her eyes are too bright.

“I’m necessary to you. In order to join your Coalition; I would need to bow to you. Is that correct?”

Lexa's face reveals the barest flicker of emotion, something is very wrong. Clarke is unrecognizable right now, unmoored.

Clarke lets the fur fall from her shoulders—something godless in her fixed look.

Lexa breathes deeply, shakes her head, and shifts to extricate herself. Before she can think, Clarke is on her with Lexa’s own ceremonial knife at her throat. Every thought is wiped from her mind. It’s only her and Clarke, and Clarke is feral.

“Idiot,” Clark notes conversationally, “You brought a weapon.”

Lexa’s whole being, her unbroken lineage—a reincarnated soul of three generations of Commanders—is the only thing that responds. She steps into the knife. It breaks skin and draws blood, and the haunting vibration of her pulse makes her head swim.

Clarke startles and then viciously grabs Lexa’s wrist and slaps the knife into her hand, pulls it to her own throat, and drops back down to her knees.

“Do it.”

Lexa tries to pull away, but Clarke’s hold on her is immobilizing. Lexa is a trained warrior and uses Clarke’s useless adrenaline-shot strength against her. She hauls Clarke up and backward and sends her sprawling to the floor. Lexa straddles her thighs, annoyed that Clarke still hasn’t released her hand and the knife is turned towards Clarke’s throat. Now it’s Lexa who bares her teeth. Clarke clearly wants to be killed; her flat, lethal stare will haunt Lexa for the rest of her life.

Lexa implores her—she doesn’t know what she’s asking for—whatever Clarke is doing, however she wants to die, it just needs to stop. It can’t happen again.

“Please,” Lexa whispers, “Clar—“

Clarke tightens her hand over Lexa’s and with calm certainty pulls the knife deeper into the skin of her own throat. “You’ll do this for me, I know you will. Like I did for Finn.” Clarke's voice is so low in Lexa’s ear, her breathe across her cheek makes her shiver.

Clarke leans upwards and slowly licks blood off Lexa’s neck, and Lexa is filled with such pleasure, awe, such deep longing—and Clarke pulls away, blood sprayed across her mouth and face, mercurial black against pale skin like snow.

There’s no arrogance in her rage, there never is. Her power isn’t arrogant. Clarke’s eyes are extraordinary now—the hurt is as bright as a morning star, part of her—and Lexa flinches. She watches in fascination as Clarke’s fever crests and breaks—she’s pleading with Lexa to end her.

“Clarke,” Lexa holds herself very still, “Look at me. I know who you are. I know you.  _Look at me_.”

In response, the moan Clarke releases deep in her chest is primitive—it stuns Lexa—and Clarke takes hold of Lexa’s other wrist, draws it down between them. Lexa gasps, Clarke's voice is dark, sweet smoke, still coaxing her to do the unthinkable.

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers, her expression carefully blank.

Clarke’s strength is preternatural; she’s a gorgeous, caged animal pacing violently in the confines at her origin. If this continues she will die.

“Not this,  _please_ , you don’t want this. Come back to yourself.” Lexa is desperate; the words are out before she can think.

Clarke stares her down and then bursts into tears. They come on so quickly and so violently that her hands let go finally, and Lexa is able to throw the knife across the room. It clatters across the floor.

Despair pours out of Clarke. She slides her arms around the curve of Lexa’s shoulders and brings her mouth to the blood again. She’s so tired. So angry _._  Her hate is so persuasive. She feels nausea overtake her. What had Roan said?  _Damaged, nothing like you. You had a choice._

She shivers and folds in on herself and almost faints with revulsion.

Lexa sits up and cradles her as best she can, for a long time. She wraps her in the furs and begins to talk to her, in an easy, soothing voice—whatever comes to mind. She croons to her and rocks her, wipes her brow and face with cool water until the blood and fever are gone, until Clarke’s breathing evens out, and she’s quiet in Lexa’s arms—until she dozes.

They stay like that. The sun moves its way slowly across the room with the waning day, and Lexa watches the light for hours until the early evening shadows envelop them.

“I’ll never bow to you.”

Lexa shifts at the sound of Clarke’s voice. There’s no inflection she can read.

Clarke steadies herself, pushes off of her body gently and stands, says just as gently, "Get out." Lexa watches her cross the room; she pours herself some wine and drinks it all in one draught. Pours another.

“Get out,” Clarke says.

Lexa rises and picks up her knife. She tosses it on the bed.

“Let the hate have you, Clarke. You'll need it in the coming days.” She says, her tone hiding her sadness. It’s a certainty. Sooner or later they'll probably annihilate each other.

Clarke’s pull, Lexa’s need for her is bright, crystalline. Lexa is patient and most of all; right now, Lexa is a strategist playing a long game—even if she dies for it. She spits blood and wipes her mouth on her cloak. She's exhausted with grief. She imagines Clarke is, as well.  _We were looking for something.... I can't recall..._

“Acknowledge the exigency of the dominion you hold," she continues evenly, resigned. She really doesn't have to offer anyone an explanation for keeping Clarke alive.

When Clarke doesn't answer her, she flexes her shoulders, "That inheritance is in your blood, your people. It’s your birthright.” Lexa turns to go, “You were born for this, and I need you. The Ice Queen marches. She will destroy the world before you remember that _it was you_ who brought the sky to earth.”


	2. Chapter 2

After the countless search parties they’ve gone on looking for Clarke, this one ends relatively without incident—not one of them died. After dispatching three Azgeda scouts and Jasper having his neck sliced open, Raven feels like they got off easy. The first person she sees once they’re through the gate is Abby. Raven watches her approach, and she feels hopeful finally, on what’s turned out to be a very crappy day.

Abby’s expression shifts when she sees her. Raven sits quietly while Abby studies her. Abby looks at Octavia, nods as if to say  _good you’re here_. She looks at Jasper, appraises and catalogs his injury, and then settles again on Raven. Something that looks like a flare-up of exasperation and possibly concern sweeps over the Chancellor’s face. It’s gone in a second, and Raven thinks she might have imagined it. Abby’s all business now.

“What happened?”

“Ice Nation,” Octavia says.

Abby focuses on Jasper again, “Get him to medical.”

She lowers him off the horse and leans him against its flank, steadying him. She runs a lightning quick diagnostic and triage in her mind, taps his shoulder, and then turns to Jackson and the others gathered behind her, “Keep pressure on it.”

Jasper gets led away. Abby turns to Raven and asks “Clarke?”

Anyone not looking for it would miss the ache in her. 

Raven shakes her head no and fights an extreme stress response to Abby's raw hurt. Abby gave Clarke up to a dream and now she’s haunted—Abby rakes her eyes over Raven’s face. Raven's being scrutinized—for what she doesn’t know—to such an extent it feels like a threat to her very survival to be seen that way.

Abby’s a mother. She may be Chancellor and the only Trauma Surgeon in the entire world but she’s also a mother, and her child is gone. Again. And Clarke does not want to be found. Raven watches her and waits for Abby to speak once she’s got the fierce flash of vulnerability under control again. Jesus, what does it take out of her to do that?

Abby lets out a breath and then nods, closing her eyes briefly.

“You want me to take them?” Octavia clears her throat and gestures to the horses; she wants to be anywhere else but between these two.

It's ok. I'll…” Raven hesitates, swallows, “I'll bring her in.”

Octavia shoots her a look. Abby notices. She winces, and then her eyes lower slowly to Raven’s hip until she blinks and raises them again,  _really_  looks at her. Raven’s pretty sure Abby’s eyes might give her a coronary.

“You can't get down, can you?” Abby’s speaking softly as she does this, and one side of her mouth turns down. She’s holding back from saying more. There’s a resigned bite to her tone. It’s not a question.

Raven—feeling faint and sad, and despite herself—shakes her head no. She can't do much of anything with the leg.

Abby stares at the ground. Decides. When Abby looks up again, she raises and offers her hands, gesturing once, coaxing Raven from her misery; she issues a soft command.

“Ok. Come here.”

The dismount is awkward as hell. Raven’s leg is numb and her lower back is aching so badly that she becomes dead weight and collapses into Abby’s waiting arms. The Chancellor is stronger than she looks.

Raven pushes off and they both manage to maneuver her away from the horse so she can lower her stiffened leg to the ground without too much ceremony. Abby is as gentle as she can be with her, and that makes Raven uneasy—she’s not sure about kindness these days. Abby doesn’t let go, and for a moment, they’re too close. Raven bounces a few times on her good side, her mortification almost total.

“Thanks.”

“Raven,” Abby’s voice is a warning.

“I’m good.” She abruptly pulls away from Abby, refusing to look at her. Abby angles herself around to get between her and the horse. Raven shoulders past her.

Raven grabs the horse’s reins and brings the beautiful animal around to block out the Chancellor. She walks away without saying another word. She doesn’t know Abby watches her longer than necessary as she limps towards the stables, nor does she see the look on Abby’s face when she finally turns away.

* * *

Raven runs her hand through her hair and raises her head from her pillow and swears like a sailor. What the fuck needs fixing now? Jackson called in a broken compressor. The kid who came to wake her up looks so scared of her that she throws her pants at him just because. She pulls on her clothes and has to start again when she forgets her bra. She stomps over to Medical. Abby’s there with Jasper and Jackson, Lincoln stands a little to the side as she storms in, letting her pass. He almost laughs in her face. She glares at him, and he lifts an eyebrow at her.

“What do you want, Abby?”

Abby turns to her and just starts right in, with a straight face, completely ignoring Raven’s mood, “I'm considering making another run to Mount Weather for medical supplies.” 

Raven’s eye roll is epic, “You want my advice?” 

“That's why you're here.” Abby’s poker face is pretty good.

Raven snorts and is about to yell something, but Lincoln is there—unfazed, calm. He shakes his head, “The last one just got back. If it looks like  _Skaikru_  is colonizing the Mountain, the truce will break, and we'll be at war.”

Jasper starts to wander off, fails and slumps forward holding his bandage against his neck and barrels out into the sunlight. He’s clearly still messed up. He stumbles and jerks away when anyone tries to catch him, yelling that he’s fine.

“Oh for christsake, Jasper,“ Raven sighs. She turns to Abby, “He's not fine.”

“Shut the fuck up, Raven,” Jasper says.

Abby’s had enough. She grabs Jasper by the collar, hauls him over, performs a cursory check and releases him for the day on the promise he’ll come back for a follow-up. Because, really.

Jackson hovers and asks if Abby will be coming back to tend to the crowd of patients, something about contraceptive implants. Abby ignores him and waves him away. 

“Abby, he had a knife to his throat,” Raven says. “And he smiled.”

Abby pays no attention.

“I want to talk about you, Raven. How's your hip?”

“You don't have a broken compressor, do you?” Raven has two choices here. One is to cause a scene and the other one is to just walk away. She does neither.

“When did the pain start?” Abby lowers her voice. She’s got her bedside manner going and it annoys the crap out of Raven. Raven’s biting down on her cheek so hard she draws blood.

“After the explosion at the dam.” Raven stares at nothing, her tone neutral.

“Three months.”

“It's nothing I can't handle,” Raven says blithely, lifting her chin. Challenging. Abby finally snaps.

“You're not handling it. You're lying to your friends. You're lying to your doctor. You pushed Wick away because he was trying to help—“

“Abby.”

“Raven, you don't... “

Raven cuts her off, “Fix yourself, Abby. You’re so busy being Chancellor and Doctor—I mean—” She takes a step forward into Abby's personal space—oddly to calm herself down—and lowers her voice, “I know you, Abby. I know. You do too much and you care about everyone and you don’t sleep. You’re avoiding your own pain, and you’re making a colossal fuck up of both your jobs.”

Abby just looks at her, eyes wide, pupils dilating with anger and hurt.

Raven doesn’t do remorse, though. She goes from zero to sixty straight to anger before she feels anxiety or reveals any vulnerability now. That softness began to go into hiding after Finn. So this feeling is new and it scares the shit out of her. She retreats, slams down on her feelings so fast she sees Abby flinch.

“Good talk.” Raven snarls and walks away.

* * *

"Mountain Killer." Roan murmurs. He stands in the middle of the fighting arena. His greeting is all muted amusement, a continuation of a silent conversation.

"Prince Roan," Clarke stands before him and waits, "what are we doing?"

"It occurs to me that you need some training in close combat," He blinks down at her, remembering their brawl at the riverbed. He smiles, "I wonder what you'd have done if I'd offered you a finer vintage than water. Would you have been able to drown me then?"

She doesn’t answer and he continues after a moment, "You rely entirely too much on others, on your guns—the only way you've survived is through the strategic ingenuity of your seconds. You're fine with a gun; you'd have to be an idiot not to be. It's an easy thing, that. Everything else—" he pauses, shrugs. It should be obvious to her what she doesn’t know.

"They're not my seconds. They're my friends. My family," Clarke says and then shuts up abruptly. Her body hurts, her mind is sharper, but her months long exile and the shock of the last day makes her feel the isolation even more.

"Short-tempered and undisciplined, undomesticated," he decides. "I should have killed you."

He circles her—sizing up her injuries, her posture, her weaknesses, her balance and her stance. "We have work to do between us,  _Wanheda_. First rule, nothing on your hands, no trinkets or jewelry, no matter how important to you. No gifts from a lover, nothing."

He takes her sword hand in his large calloused ones, turns hers critically back and forth and then lets her go. "Shall we begin?"

* * *

She knows he's enjoying this far too much. They've started with basic holds and throws, patterns of breathing and points of placement. They work on balance. He insists on re-enacting the disastrous free-for-all between them at the riverbed.

"The reason you failed," he says easily after slamming her into the packed earthen floor for the countless time and knocking the air out of her lungs, "is because you ran from the Mountain."

He's got her pinned beneath him, his knee in her gut. His grip on her hair is just short of sadistic. It's been at least two hours of instruction, and she can barely move. She's sure she's fractured a rib, she's wheezing, but what he says focuses her.

She slaps him. Hard. It barely registers, and he laughs at her. And fuck him; he's not even winded from any of this.

"You'll learn," he says. "Get up. Let's see what you can do with your little knife."

* * *

 _The Commander has called a summit. Skaikru, your people, have been called along with the other nations and tribes,"_  he'd said when his guards came to collect him.

She sits unmoving on the packed earth, head ringing and vision blurred out. She holds her sides and spits blood. Her people are coming. She shudders. Who knows what hearts and souls have in them? Hers are barren spheres now. It’s the worst possible news.

* * *

Roan sits back against the wall and shakes his chains. "Take these off,  _Heda_. It does us no good. There's no one here, and I have no cause to kill you. Not tonight."

"You were hard on her today," she says. She produces a key and undoes his hands. He nods his thanks and rubs his wrists absently.

He moves his plate of food within reach and stretches his legs out, one over the other, and smiles blissfully after a large bite, flushed and relaxed, "My god, I salute your kitchens and your hunters. Extraordinary."

Lexa isn’t in a mood to talk. So he eats in silence for a while more, and then just shrugs, "Yes, I was. I was very hard on her. You expected less? You should have asked one of your guards to do it. She needs to learn."

He pauses to drink, "She almost had me, you know, out there." He laughs to himself, "She slept with the trader before I got to her; I had to wait all night in the rain. You could hear them going at it above the storm."

He sighs—with admiration? It's a throwaway end to his meandering narrative, but he watches her for a reaction.

Lexa smiles faintly at his open, hopeful scrutiny. She actually taught him a few things, "You haven't seen the half of what she is."

"No. I expect not, and neither have you. I've never known you to forget yourself,  _Heda_." He licks his fingers clean and shoves the plate aside, "Careful with this one. What is this girl to you?"

"What is the end of your exile to you, Prince?"

* * *

The next day is worse.

"Ah," Roan says, "Pain keeps you quiet."

Clarke’s dead silent throughout the morning, dutifully watching Roan's movements like a hawk, mirroring them, learning them. Her balance is back, and her pain spikes early. The rest of the time is spent in an odd, relieving numbness. They work with long fighting staves, close quarters, and the rudimentary choreographed movement takes all her concentration to learn. At the next turn of the martial dance he's taught her, he changes direction so fast she doesn't track it, and he sweeps her leg. She goes down hard.

"Never trust a bounty hunter." He says from somewhere above, "You're pathetic today, sacralized ritual fighting is definitely not your—"

"Jesus, stop talking." She wants to tear his eyes out.

" _There_ you are," He squats down next to her, "Tell me something, if you had been able to—for that boy of yours—would you have killed me?"

She looks at him, "Why did you listen to me? Of all people, why did you spare him for me?"

He doesn't answer that at all.

"Again," he says. Clarke accepts his hand. And she's noticeably unsteady when she gets up. He looks at her with mild, aggrieved contempt, "Hold on, then, I'll get us some water."

He exits, turning away to the small anteroom adjacent to the practice arena.

Clarke sits back down to gather herself. There's blood mixed with sweat dripping from her forehead where Roan cracked his stave into her eye. She heaves a sigh and stretches out her neck; between her rib and this newest round of hell, she might as well learn something from him.

She hears swords thudding on wood and turns to see a group of young men and women approach her, there are ten or twelve of them.

" _Wanheda_ ," one of them says to her.

Where has Roan gone? They line up to test themselves against the far wall and yell with laughter, when they notice her again, "What are you doing with the Prince. Do you not know how to fight?"

She's grabbed under the arms and hauled up by the largest of the crowd. "Here," one of them shouts, "let's teach you something."

The giant lunk holds her to his chest. "Be easy. We'll show you what to do," he murmurs. Clark almost grins to herself. These are kids, younger than she is by a few years. There's nothing really to do here but posture and screw around. She's not annoyed, exactly. Until—

She feels the air around her vacuum with the sound of thrown steel. It lodges in the wall behind them. She stands helpless as the boy who has her in a loose grip laughs. All of their laughter rolls over her, and another sword sails by her right ear. They're playing, but these kids know what they're doing. She holds still. The boy flush against her hasn't moved either. Not even a tremble or shiver from him. Whichever clan this is will have to figure out some better initiation rites; this is—she's undamaged so far, sharper than she'd thought she was after Roan's slightly gleeful abuse. She just wants to rest her face on the warm floor of the sparring ring, racked with honest pain. 

They are young and still probably never killed anyone in battle—this could end stupidly. She's seen that kind of idiotic posturing the first few days on the ground, the irritating belligerent Lord of the Flies stuff, the frenzied first taste of freedom. She wonders at their clothing, her mind wandering and unconcerned. Not  _Trikru_ , another Clan.

They stop soon enough and congratulate themselves. Clarke breathes out explosively, wrenches free and hauls one of the blades out of the ground, startles when she sees what it is—it's a modified shocklash—they have no idea what they've found. She flips it on and yeah, there it is—the ice blue electric current. She stalks over and tosses the closest boy over to the gate. Waves the shocklash in his face, thinks about branding him.

"My turn."

The crowd enjoys this part as well, taunts at the kid for having been caught in the first place. He's Jasper's size, lanky, not more than fifteen years old. He was the first to speak to her. She throws the shocklash so close to his cheek it catches his hair on fire before finding its mark.

"Oh wow," Clarke says as he screams and the air begins to smell of burnt flesh, "Beginner's luck. Never used one of these."

She has her back to the entranceway, and out of the corner of her eye she sees that the group has turned their attention there, and gone silent. She launches the second sword and hits her mark before turning.

Lexa, with Indra and Titus flanking her, has opened her mouth and sees Clarke poised to throw, and waits, her breath drawn until the weapon lands safely. Then the Commander’s mouth snaps shut. Soundlessly, Indra steps forward and charges Clarke. Indra smashes her across the face—and she goes down like a felled tree.

* * *

Roan dumps water on her.

"Always running," He says and waits.

She squints up through a burgeoning headache, not in the least bit willing to hear a lecture on Polis court etiquette. He grabs her by her shirt and brings her easily to her feet. The light hurts her eyes; she's probably concussed.

They stand like that for what seems like forever. He lets her go when he sees she can manage on her own.

"Do I even need to tell you that you're here as a powerful ally? She could kill you as quickly as my mother will. Yet here we are." He's teasing her gently, his voice is a snarl of oncoming thunder, "Get your head out of your—“ he shakes his head, “ _think_ , girl."

When no answer is forthcoming, he relents. He tells her the truth, “I want revenge."

"You want to kill her." It's not a question; she might be voicing his desires or her own, she's not sure anymore.

"Oh, my dear." his eyes dance and what his answer comes out as a whisper gone before it's heard, "who do you think I mean?"

* * *

One too many astounded silences—she looks beaten bloody and possibly scary as hell—frays Clarke’s temper and patience in the hours after the arena. She remains in her rooms nursing the ugly bruise beginning to form on her side. Indra almost plowed her face in—but there won’t be a mark. She’s hit a meridian point on Clarke’s neck with her thumb that caused Clark to collapse; the blow is an elaborate ruse. What brings her down now is her exhaustion and Roan handing her ass to her every few minutes.

That was play-acting. The arena is a public space; people come and go as they please and watch the trainings at leisure. Sometimes they are the sole combatants, sometimes other groups and pairings join them, and those newcomers leave them conspicuously alone, but they do look shocked. Royal guests. She knows dimly that Lexa’s presence there is less of an anomaly than a clear indication of the Commander’s interest in her interactions with Roan.

She can’t puzzle out the tacit approval of being allowed to roam freely or spar together. Indra’s violent reaction to Clarke’s run-in with the young warriors is to be expected, she imagines. Any show of dominance within Lexa’s domain, however provoked, is brutally checked. She knows as well that the group was severely punished and thrown out of the city. A great embarrassment to their  _Kru_. Tributes are paid—she hears.

Her anger is so volatile she almost misses the obvious boon she hands Lexa with her actions. The  _Kru_  that caused the uproar has been difficult, so this gives Lexa an excellent opportunity. Of course it does,  _goddammit_. She wants to get Indra alone and rip her throat out.

She knows nothing about royal rules of form—Ark politics were different. What was done—by corrupted consensus—was a nominally benevolent and deadly totalitarianism disguised as survivalist ordinances. Every death was for the greater good.

She knows strategy and affairs of state from her mother, what she’s read in the limited libraries and downloads of the Ark—and that was Herodotus—or there was a tattered copy of Ulysses her father kept next to his bed—humanism and secularism disguised in theater, written by a Catholic. The nations of the Ark, when they joined together after the Apocalypse, had gathered the strangest and most eclectic library imaginable, and she read voraciously between Earth Skills classes and other schooling.

She’s groomed for leadership, a role on the Council when she came to her majority; she learned small amounts of medicine from her mother.

She knows that Abby’s decision to send the 100 down was a 50/50 proposition. The factions, disintegration of supplies, and the mantle of extreme and necessary dependence on each other in unsparing circumstances beat into all of them a need for convergence, friendship, loyalty; but she doesn’t know Grounder politics. And she’s been thrust into power both symbolic and real, with one haunting and deeply traumatic decision deep underneath Mount Weather.

Politics in Polis relies on cold-blooded power. Lexa is a spiritual and militaristic leader, not a figurehead. She’s a living embodiment of her people’s eternal soul. Clarke knows warrior-kings throughout history. This is neither old nor new.

At night she wallows in her lavish bath, in her incredibly well-appointed room. She’s moved from her original place located in the healer’s section of the city. Whatever they’ve put in the water is beautiful. It works miracles on her muscles and open cuts and physical pain, and she drifts. She’s young and heals quickly. She asks specifically for whatever kind of medicinal concoction that will keep her calm, faintly sedated.

She’s lonely and furious, the effect of the bath is soporific, and there’s no need to think. She deliberately has no desire to. If she’s killed in her sleep, fuck it. She pretty much maintains she deserves to be. The one thing the tincture doesn’t do is blunt her clear-eyed loathing of the Commander. Narcotic-softened she might be, but she’s not stupid.

Her guest status and legend are not strictly tortuous—people and dignitaries give her a very wide berth or converse with her as an equal. She knows she’s protected, can feel the hidden guards surrounding her. Roan is a companion in this—his ancestral blood elevates him—he’s educated, canny, supremely untroubled and charming. She snorts at that, because only three generations of a royal line? Reincarnation. Sure.

Whatever is happening here, whatever politics—in Polis and between the clans—is absolutely an example of sensual and messy life. Lexa is atavistic—Commander of the Blood—inspired or possessed by an earth elemental, rapt in her role, in ecstasy on the battlefield and in her obduracy about Clarke’s elevated importance in all of this. She’s seen it and experiences it every time they interact. She also knows that Lexa is learning.

Clarke knows with every intuitive fiber in her body—her mind and her stomach rebel violently at this idea, she dry heaves, pathetically throws up the contents of her stomach—that if Lexa and she have any commonality at all, it’s the ephemeral and betrayed alliance they’d forged against the brutal biopolitics of Mount Weather’s life and culture—with its anemic gloss of civility. The remains of a long-dead government strengthened itself through a hoarding accumulation and display of now useless cultural artifacts. Clarke wonders if they continued to print money. Good food, wine, luxuries, works of art from a century ago at their disposal. Their ancestors were the remnants of the United States governing body of the World War III era. The Mountain people relied entirely on  _othered_  human bodies as biological resources, as healing transfusions from radiation poisoning; bodies’ blood, bodies’ bone-marrow, bodies’ essential life-force traded for the Mountain’s continued existence and a desperate bid to escape their confines and survive on the outside. Every single person Clarke killed in order to save her people had been complicit in this, even the ones who had helped  _Skaikru_  and Grounders. Even the children.

The closer Clarke gets to the simple strategy of Lexa’s decision, the sheer expediency of it, trading  _Trikru_  for  _Skaikru_ , the more nausea overtakes her. It’s not just the betrayal; it’s the ease with which the decision was made. It’s the idea that Abby, Bellamy, Raven, anyone she loves is more important than the Mount Weather colony Clarke irradiated. She was forced into that decision.

How not? From the old data files she’d brought up, Mount Weather had been the site of humanity’s continuance at all costs in the case of a doomsday scenario. It’s was a relocation site for high-level officials in the event of national or world disaster—the continuity of government plans with its own shadow government, police force, and its own laws. And the culture was as cannibalistic as the Reapers they created. And every night the children, the relatively peaceful and fearful population that she’d doomed, came to her in her dreams and destroyed her as well.

She’s fighting for her own survival every night, and Lexa has left her in the wilderness. Clarke has no basic cultural structure except the unrelenting rigidity of the Ark societal outline. But you live as you can, you survive, you know what goes on in order for structure and civil obedience and survival to be maintained. That was the Sky. That was filtered, recycled air and a caste system.

She reacts violently again. Her eyes roll back into her head, and the only other concession she demands from her body is easy. Purge everything; bring the bile and the disgust up and out. It takes her a good twenty seconds to catch her breath after this second bout, and she’d hauled herself out of the bath to do it. So the least she can do now is gather her clothes, fine-spun clothes, soft leathers, and try to put them on. The first few times she needs a servant’s help, “How does all of this work?” The knife Roan has given her is under her pillow. That makes her smile. Kings slept with a weapon underneath their heads.

Most of her is concentrated on creating new memories because her old ones are ashes.

* * *

In the growing light of dawn, the city proper is still lit up and active at all hours. From her high window, she sees the remnants of revelers leaving celebrations, feasts welcoming other Nations and Clans. Games are being held and an invitation has been extended to her, but she refuses outright.

When Lexa finally comes to find her, Clarke’s unseeing focus is on the broad plains and mountain ranges beyond the gates—just visible and spread out before her in the dawn.

“What part of ‘I won’t see you’ was unclear?” Clarke doesn’t turn to face her.

“It’s been a week. I’ve honored your request for a week. That’s enough time for you to hide from yourself.”

She knows what will happen if she turns to look at Lexa. Her only protection is to embrace whatever legend she’s becoming and use it as a wall. She’s so off she has no strength or ability to do that right now. This makes her cold with fury.

But whoever said Clarke Griffin did the right thing? She turns. Lexa waits through her bitter appraisal calmly and then begins to speak. Clarke cuts her off abruptly,

“No,” Clarke says, “You don’t get to do what you want right now. You honor my request for once, nothing more and nothing less. You do what I ask. _”_  Clarke reins herself in, barely. She needs to change tactics and she needs to do it fast, or one or both of them is going to get killed.

She draws in a great, uneven breath and continues, forcing herself into the abstract space of a surgeon like she’s seen her mother do. It’s a state of being completely appropriate for these circumstances. Her hands steady out, the fire burning in her begins to be something she can wield, “You know, it was my mother who got us down here. Not me. I was a prisoner and had no choice."

"Neither did your mother, I've heard."

Clarke nods, thoughtfully, "I’m wondering what your people think of the Judeo-Christian tradition? Have you read the Bible?”

Lexa laughs, surprised and gently delighted by the subject change, “There are several copies in the libraries here. Did you find them?”

Clarke doesn’t answer, and Lexa nods unfazed, eager. “Part of my schooling from birth— I’ve had to read and absorb all the known religions from that era. I have to know where we came from.”

Clarke stares at her for a minute and then looks at a point somewhere over Lexa's shoulder, unfocused, gone.

“When I was a kid, one of my favorite paintings was Manet’s ’The Dead Christ with Angels.’” Clarke glances at Lexa’s face briefly and asks silently if she knows what she’s talking about. Lexa, completely at ease, encourages Clarke to continue, “When Mary Magdalene went to Christ’s tomb after three days and saw that the stone had been moved from the entrance, she encountered a man, enshrouded and uncanny. It was the hour between deep night and dawn. She recognized Him immediately and reached out to him, He said  _’Noli me tangere.’_  

Lexa says, “That means ‘ _Don’t touch me’_ ,” and now she can’t contain herself, her smile widens, and it’s probably not the best reaction right now seeing that Clarke barely hides her intense need to kill her, but she’s enjoying this immensely.

 _’Noli me tangere’_  means ‘nothing touches me’ not ‘don't touch me.’” Clarke steps closer to Lexa, “One famous use is by Sir Thomas Wyatt in a sonnet about Anne Boleyn: ‘ _Noli me tangere, quia Caesaris sum_ ’ or ‘Nothing touches me, for I am Caesar's’ [and hard to hold], it continues…” there’s a slight curl to Clarke’s lips that could be a snarl, could be thoughtful. Lexa decides both. 

“Go on,” Lexa nods, “My Latin is rusty. Other things took precedence over dead languages.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure,” Clarke shrugs, “But you mean root languages and you don't honor anything. Simple things. Like what comes before—like say, I don’t know, a pledge of friendship and alliance—should dictate what comes after. The translation error comes from a common misinterpretation of Latin conjugation, but even they don't translate it correctly there. The widely accepted translation is as you say; I just think it’s wrong.”

The silence grows between them. 

“Say something,” Clarke murmurs.

Lexa steps further towards her, and Clarke has an absurd urge to run thru a wall to get away.

“I concede the point, Clarke.” Lexa changes the conversation smoothly; “I’m hosting a summit with your Mother and your people tomorrow at sundown. You can return to them.”

“Why would you send an exiled prince after me, bring me here against my will, keep me here against my will— just to return me?”

“I brought you here to save you.”  
  
"Like you did at the gates of Mount Weather. You're predictable," There’s real venom in Clarke’s voice, her seams are cracking, and before the hurt can well up in her eyes she flips the conversation back to exegesis, ”The subtlety of that translation is important and significant, from the mouth of Jesus after his crucifixion, especially. Do you know what it means, Commander? It means HE is beyond human need, pressure, and fate. It doesn’t mean he’s untouchable, unreachable, or inhuman or rejects Mary Magdalene, as any other interpretation of that text cite implies. I think it makes him divine and awesome. The fact that he later invites Thomas to touch him makes this obvious.”

“We don’t have time for—“ Lexa is overjoyed but hides it; raises her eyebrow, “so I’m the Magdalene in this? You didn’t need my help at Mount Weather, clearly.“ The subtle eyebrow lift is meant to make a point.

Point made. “Clearly." Clarke turns away, "I’m saying your concerns aren’t mine. Ever.”

Lexa deliberately approaches Clarke now, her joy diminishing in a flood of sorrow and regret. Lexa reaches out tentatively and brushes her fingers along Clarke's jaw, turns her gently to face her. Clarke stands her ground—her expression is open—all of it is laid out for Lexa to read, and none of it is easy. All that’s there is poised to destroy her. Lexa searches Clarke’s eyes for something, anything, and all she can see is death.

The spell’s broken when Lexa goes back to business: “You can—. Clarke, they are your clan. Your mother, your friends. What you’ve done is destroying you, and your guilt is weakening you. It’s easier to hate me than hate yourself.”

“Oh, I can do both.” Clarke says and then sighs, “All I know is that we’re speaking a different language here. I don’t betray my friends. You have no honor, and I had no choice.”

“Clarke, you’re not a prisoner. I brought you here to protect you. You can go back to your people. Join me, become the 13th Clan. You can stop running—stop being a coward.”

Clarke goes white.

”Have you and Roan been talking?” She hisses, “What the fuck is wrong with you all? Who says things like this without any— you know what? Leave me alone. You have no right to ask anything of me. I’m done. I left.”

“No one would dare move against you because you’d be under my protection. You’d have the strength of all the Coalition behind you. You would never be hunted again. Bow before me and your people will be safe.”

Clarke stalks straight up to her, her eyes are alien, pupils completely blown—the slaughter she’s responsible for eclipsing her sanity. Lexa wonders absently, disassociated entirely because this hurts too much, if the dead will ever leave Clarke, or if Clarke will accept the dead. One or the other needs to happen, or she’ll disappear into madness again and again. No one needs a rogue, self-exiled Commander without a people.

Clarke shakes her head violently, opens her mouth to say something, and thinks better of it. Instead, she says, “I made you look weak at Mount Weather, and now the Ice Nation is exploiting that. If you want the power of  _Wanheda_ , kill me. Take it.”

Clarke’s words hang between them. Lexa steps away. It’s as Clarke thought; the Commander has entirely shut her out, she does not exist—not for herself. Once, there were two women who stood side by side before a pyre. No more. There's not even the slightest, smallest grim feeling of victory in it. There's only silence.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Roan comes to Clarke’s room soon after. He’s not there for another round in the training arena; his clothes are fine, his hair clean—he looks very much himself as she knows him now, a Prince of the Blood. She even recognizes the aura of beautifully contained grace she only glimpsed before, underground, when he’d spared Bellamy’s life for her.

“Clarke,” he says, “a word?”

He leads her down into an open courtyard and leans against the balcony and looks up into the sky.

“I want you to come to the gathering of the ambassadors today. These men,” he gestures to the guards behind them, “are mine; they know the ins and outs of every passageway and hallway and hidden corner of this place. You’ll be out of view.”

“Why?”

“You need to see who you’re dealing with. You haven’t killed her yet, so I can only assume you’re of two minds.”

“Roan,” she leans next to him, “trust me, I absolutely know who I’m dealing with.”

“Because of the Mountain?” He snorts, “You would have done the same, girl, your people weren’t part of any Coalition to speak of, you’re outliers. Lexa could only guess at your strength then. Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t have done the same as she did. You sacrificed friends to do it, but you did it. You saved your  _Skaikru_ no matter the cost. Every single man, woman and child in that accursed place was complicit in the reapings, thousands of my people—” He stops to compose himself. She’s never seen him show real anger; she imagines it’s breathtaking.

Clarke shakes her head, her voice rising, “You have no—“

“What? Authority to speak to you like this? I saved your man’s life. You were  _so eloquent_  in your begging,” There it is, that just hidden amusement and sharp intelligence. Roan is different from all the rest of his Nation, she’s pretty sure. If there are more like him—that would be terrifying.

He sobers, and his grip tightens on the balustrade, “You care about your people,  _Wanheda_. Just as I or Lexa or any of the other nations care about each other. But you’re only harkening to Lexa,” he indicates the guards again, “I heard everything you two talked about, and I want you to  _see_  her now. Enough listening. I listened to her before, and she refused our deal. She refused me freedom.”

“Why were you banished, Roan? Why—” Clarke says, “Who are—?”

“I’m nobody,” he echoes her words, looking down at her from his tall height. Clarke’s surprised, he’s holding back, even though he spoke to her as if she’s a child he has to explain basic spelling to, “Who are you? You have great power in you. If you don’t see that now, if you don’t understand it, then you’re an absolute waste of my time and  _hers_. You destroyed the Mountain—something none of the 12 Nations did. It was you. If you ask for her now, no one can keep her out. And she stays away when you bid her to.” He takes a deep breath and turns away again, “So I beg you again to observe her as she is, not as she tells you.”

“All this intrigue is giving me a headache.”

He actually laughs, “It’s very simple. I’m a Prince without a Clan. All I want is to go home.”

* * *

What she sees from her hidden spot demoralizes her.

Lexa, who is used to being heard above battle when she raises her voice, doesn’t lift it now. Only one other person she knows speaks like this— her mother—and it means extreme danger. Clarke is shocked to her soul by the arrogance of the Ice Nation’s ambassador. He’s bawling at the assembly, calling for Clarke’s death, shouting that Lexa can’t do what should be done. It’s a reasonable argument given the belief surrounding transference of power, but his insolence is such that she wonders at Lexa’s calm.

A roar of dispute breaks out, and there’s some back and forth about Ice Nation’s proximity to Polis.

The ambassador laughs and waves it away, “Military exercises. We were searching for  _Wanheda_ , as were you all. A mistake, nothing more.”

Titus says somewhat that Clarke misses, and the ambassador rolls his eyes openly. Lexa calls for silence. Clarke can see even from her place in the shadows behind the convocation that Lexa isn’t even fighting for calm, she’s completely tranquil. Perhaps Roan sees something she doesn’t. She sees what the audience room sees— peaceful deference to the Ice Nation’s man, an inconceivable sign of weakness. Roan’s face is kind of priceless. His distaste at the scene is apparent.

Lexa is dead silent; then she says, not loudly but in a voice so silken and reconciliatory it cuts through everything else, “Come speak with me for a moment, you’ve made your point. Come with me so we can talk alone.”

From where Clarke’s concealed she can see everything even if she can’t hear the seemingly civil back and forth. She dismisses it as diplomacy, and wonders again at what she actually does know about Lexa. The Ice Nation’s ambassador steps forward—he has come towards her to have the last word—she can see the brightness of his eyes with a political gambit won. Even the guards that joined them look appalled, doubtful and uneasy at his actions. This is not an ambassador’s delicacy in the slightest, or attributed obeisance to Lexa’s position. This is open insult.

A brutal flash of movement startles her, and she watches in uncomprehending terror. Lexa pulls back and slams the ambassador’s chest with her foot, kicking him out into the air. He goes over with a bellow like a slaughtered animal, jerking wildly for purchase in the sky, and then he’s gone.

It’s a small eternity before Lexa turns back to the room, “Would anyone else care to question my decisions?”

* * *

Clarke retches up most of what’s in her stomach, deep in the throes of a second round of severe dry heaves, when Roan finds her.

“Oh get up,” He laughs, not unkindly.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and accepts the glass of wine he offers. She drinks it and slumps against the wall. She’s going to kick him in the nuts. So hard.

“Ugh. Get away from me,” It comes out weakly and she clears her throat, embarrassed. “Oh god,” she murmurs.

“This is a rather strong reaction,” Roan says with some warmth, “Come. Tell me.”

Clarke closes her eyes and does her best to breath. “My father. He died in a similar way. I saw it, witnessed it, I had to.”

“I knew the ambassador, a halfwit. Sooner or later someone would have killed him if he hadn’t done it himself eventually.” He waits for her to speak, when she doesn’t he continues, “I’m sorry for it. Your father.”

Clarke breathes in through her nose, to see if she can get more air in her lungs, “You’re very mysterious you know?” she asks him, helplessly, “why haven’t you killed me yet?”

Roan smiles, “Why haven’t I killed any of you yet?”

He stares at his hands, sits down beside her, and takes hers in his and they both watch the sunlight streaming through the high windows—illuminating their skin. There’s a hint of wood smoke in the air, pale late spring brilliance all around them, “You and I, maybe we’re a little alike. You say we’re both still in the wilderness and here we are in the middle of the wasteland. ‘ _In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood_. You irradiated the Mountain, our people’s most profane place.”

“Do you need looking after?”

“In exile, I'm nothing but a ghost—I’ve ceased to exist. Only the Commander has the power to lift that from my shoulders.”

“Then why have me kill her? Why not kill her yourself, or me and claim our power.”

“I may very well do that.” He shrugs.

“Why haven’t you killed me?”

“Because you’re not ready,” he pauses, and rubs his thumb over her knuckles; it soothes her, “and, because you love someone, there are others to think about. I saw it in your eyes that day for—“

“Bellamy.”

“You surround yourself with people who would follow you to the end of the world, and you have no idea about any of it. You’re in awe at Lexa’s splendid anger, and it is  _glorious_ , even if it makes you sick.”

“Even if it was the worst possible political move possible? That was an act of war. That was barbaric—we had to do that in the Sky, on the Ark, because we—  _fuck_.” She shakes her head violently, tears forming.

“Who are you,  _Wanheda_ , Commander of Death? She is Commander of the Blood. Knowing yourself shouldn't be this difficult.”

That shuts her up. He rises up and dusts off his tunic, still holding her hand, “What she did had nothing to do with politics. Open your eyes. Time is come. You’ll choose who you are. Remember Love, above all else. No matter how much your heart breaks. It’s a powerful thing, your heart, made to be broken over and over.”

* * *

Raven’s halfway back to her room after a late night drinking with Gina when she sees Jasper being dragged along by two burly sentries, their arms supporting him; they’re distracted by the smaller kid’s frantic yelling and cursing they almost run her over. 

“Fucking stupid—“ Jasper looks battered and more drunk than usual.

Raven puts her hands out to touch him, but his arm flails out and knocks her sideways. A small trickle of blood slides down her cheek, “Jasper—?”

He struggles ineffectually against the pair of soldiers. They grab him by his arm and torque it roughly behind his back. He squeaks and slumps forward, shut down from his twisting, erratic flailing. He smells like he dumped a whole pail of alcohol on himself. Raven holds her hand to her cheek, swipes the blood away.

“Hey, hey, relax.”

She looks at the two men,  _young_  men. God, they’re recruiting them younger and younger now. She shakes her head at them, signaling them to hold on. They stand down, but don’t let their charge go.

Jasper starts to cry, “Those things belonged to people.”

“What things?

“That piano,” he moans, “fucking grave robbers.” He’s drooling, his head lolls to the side and Raven can see a huge shiner forming. He’s plainly still shaken from a fight. His shirt is ripped. There’s dried blood crusting under his nostril.

“Chancellor said to get him home and into bed.”

Raven doesn’t have to think too hard to know what’s happened now, “Hey Jasper, bet I should see the other guy, huh?”

That makes him giggle, and then he starts crying harder. Something in Raven just cracks—she feels as decimated as Jasper looks. Just minutes ago she’d hung in space again, dark and brilliant, full of night and day and things she can think through relatively unscathed. There’s no screen here, though.

“Okay, you little freak. Let’s get you to bed,” Raven motions for one of the dudes to move aside and let her take Jasper under her arm. The other guy shifts a little and hangs Jasper's arm around her shoulders. “Okay?” he grunts at Raven. She nods and they head towards Jasper’s quarters. She reaches back to some far off time in her not-so-distant past and feels something difficult. Something a lot like sympathy.

* * *

Clarke’s guards follow her as far as the edge of the glade. She suspects they’ve been bought as well, Roan’s men, because they simply nod and let her go on by herself. A stream of children passes her as she makes her way out into the opening of the forest. They talk excitedly among themselves.

“Aden,” one of them says to a boy near her, ”did you see what you did? What a wonder that was.”

Lexa stands with Titus. She turns immediately, unsurprised, and Titus breaks off whatever he was saying, his mouth a thin unhappy line.

“Leave us,” Lexa says.

Titus bows and moves away. Clarke is taken aback when he stops before her, bows his head in deference until he sees whatever he sees and departs.

Clarke wonders what hidden amusement waits for her in Lexa’s gaze, but there’s none. She’s only waiting for her to speak.

Clarke comes to stand in front of Lexa. “Now you’re sparring with children?” It’s not a taunt, but it’s not kind.

“I am. Who knows when  _Skaikru_  will slaughter our innocents again—looking for you.” It’s a simple statement of fact. And that,  _that,_  is certainly not kind in the slightest. Lexa  _knows_ , she stood right next to Clarke when she kissed Finn and put the knife through his heart. Clarke remembers Lexa watching her; her expression hard, unreadable, somehow anchoring and compassionate. 

The knife Roan gave her is in her hand and at Lexa’s throat within an instant. It’s comically the same position they found themselves in just a few days ago, except Clarke isn’t on the verge of losing her mind, and Lexa is nowhere near as forgiving.

She does what she did before and holds herself against the blade’s edge. Clarke doesn’t see the other weapon until it’s too late and Lexa has twisted it up and inside Clarke’s unprotected space, twisted the knife away from her throat and pulled her wrist back in an unbreakable grip.

“How many times will we do this before you can actually get it done?” Lexa asks softly before casually stepping out of range.

“Teach me then. Like those kids.” Clarke’s clearly asking who they are, and Lexa ignores her and just smiles.

“Show me what Roan’s done so far. We’ll start from there.”

The sparring is ruthless. Lexa isn’t giving her much room for mistakes, taking her measure and Clarke’s fully aware that she’s being baited. Lexa and Roan are the same that way. Lexa stops the proceedings to correct and revise and reshape Clarke’s movements to match her own, much as Roan's done, but where Roan taught her rudimentary close-contact fighting—he wants her able to kill a man his size, with his strength and agility and maybe with her bare hands—Lexa shows her a style that’s much more formal. The pacing is different. It’s a way of moving that Clarke’s more attuned to after all that time watching and hunting the magnificent cats.

Roan taught her how to gut a man and explained in almost loving detail what a chest wound could do in the field, how a fighter could live till he tried to move, then spew blood and die in minutes. Their weapons are the blades, not guns, not staves or fists, and if Clarke rips Lexa’s throat open she’ll watch her die slowly, agonizingly, splashed in gore.

Clarke improves tremendously in a very short period of time, and Lexa’s grateful for it. They part and circle each other. Lexa’s last attack takes Clarke off guard, and she bungles the parry, slicing her upper arm.

Lexa moves to look at it. Clarke catches Lexa’s shoulder and spins her away, “You’re not even trying.”

“ _I am your soldier_ ,” Lexa smiles, “Come after me with everything you can.” Lexa motions her forward and then stands with her arms out wide from her sides, welcoming.

Clarke’s been on a slow, anxious burn for days. She can’t quite remember that first night with Lexa when she was half insane, and she can’t quite forget. She’s incapacitated and frightened by what she’s done, the guilt and the desire to die, the awful comfort she finds when Lexa held her, and so she charges unthinkingly.

Lexa’s hand is on Clarke’s throat immediately, and she’s backed against a tree before she knows Lexa’s even moved. Lexa reaches down with her other hand and wrenches the weapon out of Clarke’s grip.

“You’ll never be as good as Roan,” Lexa says, “I think he’s the only one who would be able to best me. We used to spar as children when he came with his mother.”

“Do you know something?” Clarke asks. She sounds distracted, not quite there and lost in memories, “There was a woman before Roan got to me. Do you want to hear? She gave me something neither of you can.”

Clarke’s voice takes on the tone of an Oracle, whispering from some deep chamber beneath the earth in a language only a snake interprets. The world spins on around them, and Clarke keeps going, “When I found her, or that time especially—I’d been trading with her for weeks—I was wounded, my head hurt. My back  _should’ve_  hurt, after what the giant cat did to me, it almost tore out my shoulder—you’ve seen the scar—but Niylah cleaned and dressed my wounds. She told me she knew who I was and didn't care, that she wouldn't turn me in for the price on my head. I don’t know why I trusted her after what you did to me, maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just needed someone—maybe one or two of your people has compassion and loyalty—and then I remembered Lincoln. What is it with you, Lexa? What is it about the Ice Nation? What makes you who you are? Was it Costia?”

 _Costia_. Lexa goes pale. 

“—I felt exposed in a way I’d never felt before,” Clarke’s expression lightens and softens. “Every kill makes me stronger, every life-blood I take for survival becomes who I am. With each kill it gets stronger, this predatory, wakeful state. Doesn’t it, Lexa?”

Lexa won’t answer. Clarke’s on her own, and she pushes further, because she can, and she honors it, “I tasted your blood that night, Lexa. I drank it from your throat. I needed your strength. That’s what it’s like, isn’t it? That’s what you know and I don’t.”

Clarke’s hand reaches out and traces the curve of Lexa’s jaw. Her thumb draws down Lexa’s neck and presses just  _there_  on the most vulnerable point, “If you kill me now, can you imagine how much power would be yours? Or if somehow I killed you? The tenets are true—they’re not apocryphal. I didn’t know what it was I really needed, and the woman, Niylah, could only do so much for me. But God, what she did—“

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly. It’s the only sign she’s heard anything. Clarke won’t stop talking.

* * *

_Clarke is almost frantic now, all the blood has drained to her center, the only moisture she can taste is what she took from Niylah’s kisses, her tongue—she struggles not to bite at her—she needs to rein it in—she’s so thirsty. For what, at this point, she doesn’t know. Her body is spiraling into frenzy. Her throat works convulsively. She doesn’t know if she’s going to cry._

_Their kisses deepen, and Niylah just smiles against her mouth, easily accepting Clarke's aggression. She swipes her thumb across Clarke’s bottom lip and then kisses her throat before coming back to her mouth._

_“Your taste,” Niylah says, and she moans._

_Clarke, for the first time since Finn, feels pleasure. Niylah laughs softly and strokes her tongue with her own, inviting her to do anything she wants._

_“You have so many wounds. They're not physical,” Niylah muses, more to herself than to Clarke._

_Clarke is panting, barely aware of Niylah’s voice except as an anchor for her aching body. Niylah draws away slowly to watch her, calm her down. Clarke’s breath has caught in her throat. Her body moves on its own and is becoming more brutal and erratic in its need. Niylah senses both unease and a sheer desire to let go, to completely lose herself here with her more forcefully than with any other person she’s been with. The power in this girl is entwined with innocence and loneliness, a helplessness that is translating into an undeniable need to be taken, to trust._

_So she slips her hand between them and drags her fingers through Clarke’s gathering wetness, calmly. She forces Clarke's head towards her gently and holds her gaze for a moment, steadies her, waits for her to breathe._

* * *

“Lexa, are you listening?” Lexa’s eyes haven’t strayed from Clarke’s, but something is changing in her—Clarke can feel it like her own pulse. The Commander merges in and out of shadow and light. "Stay with me. Don't look away when I tell you this. Do you know what Niylah said to me? She said ‘ _My mother was taken by the Mountain. You ended the Reaping._ ’"

When Lexa doesn’t say anything, Clarke sighs.

“Look at what I am.” Clarke murmurs, “Look what you made, Lexa.”

* * *

_"Stay with me. Don't look away. My mother was taken by the Mountain. You ended the Reaping."_

_Her hand comes away soaked and she brings her fingers to Clarke’s lips, offers up Clarke's own desire for her to taste. Clarke takes it all into her mouth, swallows it gratefully._

_She unceremoniously flips Clarke under her and rears up to take her shirt off. Clarke is in a torrent of feeling so fierce she can’t think or do much of anything except pull Niylah’s mouth to hers over and over. She moans deep in her chest. Niylah pulls away and smiles, laughing softly, her palm caressing Clarke’s cheek before she gathers herself and kisses slowly down Clarke’s body. Clarke braces her hands in the furs, absolutely lost in pleasure now._

_When Niylah thrusts into her she forgets everything she is._

* * *

“Niylah was the first to tell me who I am. She was kind and graceful and she used me  _only_  for pleasure, she let me taste myself for a night, she took me and guided me and let me go— gave me a gift. You and Roan skin me alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Lexa’s voice is so hurt Clarke almost can’t bear to hear it; she feels Lexa break at the end of her words. Those haunting eyes. Clarke wavers out of her trance; she’s fragmenting, too.

“I never meant to turn you into this.” Lexa’s gentle words, and God, _they are so gentle._  She drops the knife and steps back shaking her head. Tears she’s been holding in finally come and she almost falls. There are no words; she has nothing. The both of them are—they have so much to say between them and it can’t be today or now—protecting them both, preventing even more inadvertent hurt than there already is.

“Your mother arrives tonight. You’re free to leave with them after the treaty negotiations.”

Lexa hovers a moment before moving out of the glade and into the forest. She’s almost out of sight when Clarke's wits return. Clarke is delivered up to some other power she has no name for; maybe she can hold someone else in her hands, without destroying them, just once.

“Wait. Lexa—wait. I have a better idea.”

* * *

“You just need like, one more dimension. You can’t just be brooding and periodically violent, you need some kind of twist, or angle, or  _ethos_.” Clarke heads towards very drunk. Roan is as well, but gamely squints and nods, following along as best he can. It’s not even lunchtime. It’s a very late breakfast, and tonight’s summit promises to be insane.

“You’re being an ass and insisting to God and the World and me—” he bows as best he can from his chair and almost crashes over, “far too many people right there—that the Commander has no  _character_  that you understand.” He’s literally laughing in her face. “You want her, and you’re being a damn idiot.”

 “I do not  _want_  her.”

“Why not? I would. I do. Sometimes.” One of his eyebrows arches from behind his wine cup and Clarke spears what’s left of her cheese and cured meat rather viciously.

Roan ignores her and continues, “She’s magnificent, she’s brought together the twelve clans. Lexa’s a skilled warrior and an unparalleled strategist. She’s kept  _my mother_  in check for over a decade—“ he growls that last bit, shaking his head in reluctant wonder. “Have you  _seen her—_ her beauty—“

Clarke practically hurls her cup at him, rattling everything on the table, “You’re mother’s coming here, isn’t she.” 

Roan rips off a piece of bread like it’s someone’s neck. “Yes, at some point, somehow she’ll make her presence known. And you haven’t assassinated the Commander. And I’ll have to explain that bit to my  _Queen._ Thanks so much for that. You have feelings for Lexa. You’re a weak-willed besotted little girl— _useless_. I should throw you down these steps into that beautiful terraced garden below. Give me back my fucking weapon. It was a gift from my—” 

Titus appears in the doorway, “ _Wanheda_ , the  _Skaikru_  delegation has arrived.”

“My mother—?”

The Councilor nods and waits. When nothing else is forthcoming, he begins, “Shall I—“

“See that they’re made comfortable, welcomed,” Clarke realizes immediately that what she’s saying is gratuitous and she flushes, “I’ll talk to them tonight, before the summit, not earlier.”

Titus hesitates as if to say something, and then decides against it. He sketches a bow and departs.

With that news, both of them sober up considerably and retreat into their separate thoughts. Roan’s dark features, at once handsome and aloof, his bearing arrogant and confident, softens as he watches her. She’s no longer a stranger. She’s a girl that’s done the impossible.

He does nothing in accordance with his Mother’s or his people’s reputation— the misery the Ice Nation apparently brings to all in their path. “Our time together is at an end,” he sounds wistful, “We won’t be seeing anything of each other from now on unless—well, unless.”

Clarke gazes at him, and he pauses and nods in some kind of understanding only he knows, “What shall we do with you, little destroyer? What will you do now, indeed?”

He leaves her there alone, to gaze out at a city built from ruins glittering in the noon sun. The air is clear and sharp, the sun warm for the season. She’s disassociating, keeping a discreet distance away from her sudden and very familiar self-pity.

* * *

She adopts a calculated and low-key dramatic entrance when she enters the giant chamber— _Lexa’s private chambers_ —to meet her mother and Kane. She’s bathed and been dressed for the occasion. Her blue eyes— _Jake’s eyes,_ Abby thinks— ringed with the dark, unforgiving kohl, marks her as more than Abby’s daughter and more than who she remembers from only three months ago.

Abby moves forward with instinctual, obvious relief and envelops Clarke in an embrace that every part of Clarke welcomes and refuses. Abby is so, so warm. The heat radiating off her body immediately settles Clarke’s soul, and she fights it. The reasons are so multi-layered—heartbreaking to both of them. Seeing her mother almost splinters any resolve she has—she wants to throw herself at her feet and beg her for forgiveness, she wants to tell Abby how ferociously she hates herself, hates Abby—how much she loves her. She holds to the contained fury that’s been present since Abby gambled with both her and her father’s lives, no matter what the reasons were or how many counterparts there are to Clarke’s own actions.

Clarke’s hand falls to where her small knife has normally been since she arrived in Polis, but no weapons are allowed at the Summit. Abby and Marcus and the rest of their party are weaponless as well.

“Mom, “Clarke pulls away, “We have no time. Listen, I have—“

Abby cuts her off, “Clarke, wait a minute. Let me—just let me  _look_ at you.” 

“Mom,“ Clarke shakes her head, she turns to Kane. He’s easier to see. Abby is actually making her shiver. “There’s no time. The terms of the Summit are changed,  _have_ changed. The Ice Nation wants the Commander dead; they want to break the Coalition. It would mean the dissolution of our treaty; we would be open and susceptible to attack. We would be destroyed.” 

Abby and Kane are both listening now. Marcus shakes his head and lowers his voice and starts speaking urgently, “I’ve seen the Ice Nation’s Army, Abby. Like nothing we’ve encountered since we landed here. We stand absolutely no chance against them. It would be the end of us. Pike told us both what happened to Farm Station, the children, the slaughter. It would be worse, for us, for the other clans.”

Abby nods, “So. New terms?”

Clarke inclines her head in relief, “Yes. We become the 13th clan and remain under the protection of the Commander and the Coalition.”

“There’s no other choice, is there?” Abby says, “Not in the short term.” 

Clarke shakes her head and Abby looks at her and asks a question she already knows the answer to, “What will stop the Ice Nation?”

“ _Wanheda.”_

Abby freaks out as soon as Clarke leaves the room, goddamn the guards hovering in the doorway, and fuck this whole place.

“She’s a child,” she hisses at Kane. 

“The Commander isn’t much older than she is. Neither was Jaha when he became—hey, look at me. This is good news.”

Abby never freaks out. Kane doesn't really know what to do.

Abby smiles. There’s no warmth in her right now, “Marcus, we know the power they both hold. Lexa has no conscience, has been trained from birth not to have one—Clarke, whatever,  _whoever_  they think she is, whatever totemic power they’ve placed on her—she’s _my_  child. And all of it is eating her alive, I can see it. You see it. Think what it did to us, what our choices did to us.”

Kane can only lower his eyes. “But Indra—“

Abby’s eyes flash dangerously before he can finish. He takes her hand and they wait.

* * *

“I won’t kill her. I don’t have the right,” Lexa doesn’t turn when Titus comes to stand a little behind her as she leans against the stone parapet.

“You have every right. No matter what she’s done for us, no matter the Mountain—it’s the only way. What you suggest now—I will follow you in all things,  _Heda_ — but this way you propose is provisional at best; you know that as well as I do.”

“The larger threat is Ice Nation.” 

“Then take what’s yours to take. The Queen hates you. Her son stalks the city as if it’s his already, and you allow it. Nia will move to take your position as soon as she can, with whatever’s at hand. She holds some of the Ambassadors to her by sheer force of threat even now. Take the power  _Wanheda_ has while you still have time—any other choice is seen as your weakness. You can lead us all in the way you’ve envisioned for so long. We’re so close.” 

“Titus, as dear as I love you—as long as you’ve served me and my soul-line—if you suggest I kill Clarke one more time I’ll execute you with my bare hands,” She looks at him with no malice at all. “If you think of Costia in my presence, even in your deepest most private thoughts—” She turns to him and leans up to kiss his cheek and walks to the door, extends her hand to him. “You see doom in everything. Can’t you see what a gift Clarke is? Gifts are few enough in our lives. Trust me. She elevates herself. Let’s see what waits for us.”

* * *

Thunder rumbles and lightning plays through the windows of the torch-lit corridor. As Clarke walks, she can smell the sea in the wind rising with the storm, the City isn’t far from the coast. She wonders as the approaching storm flashes around her where her guards have gone. She’s alone for this particular pilgrimage; but they’re all pilgrims to this throne, this presence. 

She knows the way on pure instinct and doesn’t question why. Somewhere ahead a woman begins to sing a haunting refrain, and Clarke feels a chill ascend from her depths—all the souls her power rests on making themselves known to her again. If she’s anyone tonight, she’s a Lord of Death; she has no semblance of humanity. That’s what the assembled clans will see. What her mother, Kane, and Lexa read in her is beyond what she wants to know—and the least of the thoughts that tear at her.

She’s about to deify someone she’d sworn to kill, for the sake of everyone she holds dear. Clarke is a monster whose slim humanity lies in the protection she can give to her people, her friends—what can she be to anyone else? She says their names. A litany.  _Abby, Jake, Wells, Finn, Bellamy, Raven, Octavia, Monty, Jasper, Lincoln—s_ he begins to cry and stops before she enters, gathering herself.

She says their names over and over as she crosses the threshold into her own hell, and by a trick of the storm light and the candles arrayed around the chamber, her face appears as calm as a quiet, gentle song sung to send a child to sleep—a song of violence to come. Of Titans eating their children.

As Clarke paces the candlelit path to the throne, she looks neither to the right nor the left—she knows exactly where her mother is. Abby’s presence is like the flares cast by the rockets they sent up the night Raven landed against the dark horizon.

Lexa stands to meet and honor her. Anyone else watching her would see a sorcerer queen straight out of every legend they might know—the ceremonial markings on her face and around her eyes call to everyone there with an understated, vast power that cloaks the room. It takes everything Clarke has, every ounce of latent anger and pride, not to kneel then and there.

The assembled representatives, guards, the general audience of courtiers and commoners see a none-too-subtle reminder that the Commander’s duty is to their continuance, prosperity, and safety—and that their duty is solely to her and her alone. Although Clarke  _thinks_  she sees warmth in her eyes, she knows she’s the only one who would notice it.

Clarke closes her eyes for a brief second and breathes in slowly to keep her balance—the way Roan has taught her—the ceremony of this already imprinted in her consciousness from who knows what cultural memory. Lexa raises one pale, graceful hand and looks at Clarke’s hidden eyes, the imagined warmth gone. The Commander’s unwavering study of  _Wanheda_  before her telegraphs blood disappearing from view in the twilight of a moonless night.

_Open your eyes. Look at me._

The words weren’t spoken aloud. Clarke obeys without thinking, and even though she’s rehearsed this in her room and in her mind for hours, the shock of bending her knee to Lexa reverberates through her entire body and splinters her. Lexa’s regard, a beacon at this point, is the only thing holding her together. The only other thing she can grasp is her practiced oath and promise, the ritual of the thing she’s doing. Whatever they have planned together is nothing compared to the sheer physical authority Lexa wields over everyone in the room, in the city, and beyond the known territories—because of who she is and who Clarke has become in her three months of exile. The sinuous bow of every other person in the room is a grace note.

When Kane comes forward to accept the protection of the Commander, Clarke rises and steps back into the shadows, now one of the Thirteen. No more, no less. She watches impassively as Kane is branded with  _Skaikru’s_  own symbol, but her body feels it, feels it as if it’s her own skin being burned. Maybe it is. 

* * *

When Bellamy and Pike rush through the crowd, weapons drawn and shouting about an assassin here in the room _,_  it shakes her out of the faraway place she’s been, and she literally can’t bear what she sees _. Bellamy._ He would give his life for hers, again. His fragile, loving trust in her, the fissures of pain and growing horror she can see making their way from his heart, and working through his bloodstream begin to dissipate when he looks at her expectantly. He waits for her to leave with them. He can’t know the way he’s already rearranged her molecules, down to her thought-structure or why she ultimately has to refuse what he’s doing.

His horrific, growing realization of what’s happened—Echo’s disappearance. It can’t be anything than what it is, betrayal—his helpless terror for Gina and Raven inside Mount Weather with a good number of Pike’s Farm Crew. And when Clarke hears her mother’s part in relocating PIke’s people to Mount Weather and utilizing the supplies and medical facilities, her mind rebels in such a visceral way she—she’s sure there’s a reason for it—but she can feel Lexa’s despairing fury so clearly that she can’t even meet their eyes, not Abby’s, not Kane’s, and not Bellamy’s.

“What have you done—Echo told you this?” she whispers instead. “Oh. Bellamy. God, sweetheart, no. Where are the rest of our people? Are all of them in the Mountain? Who—? There’s no one here in this room who can hurt anyone.”

She’s that intuitive now, and she doesn’t question it. She reaches for his face, and his eyes widen in confounded shock. He extends his arms out to her because he’s going to fall if he doesn’t. “Echo. Echo was right here with me. She told me—Clarke, it was Echo. I trusted what she said, she was in the cage next to me. We saved each other, I thought—“

He’s reeling on his feet, his voice barely above a whisper. He’s talking to himself. Talking himself down. He’s always been alone, just him and Octavia and now somehow, Clarke. She’s so much like him. She wants to take him in her arms and rock him gently. She can see his whole world exploding, and she can’t do anything for him.

“Ice Nation,” Pike raises his voice, in stark contrast to Bellamy, he has no doubts about what he thinks is going on. And apparently no reservations at getting every  _Skaikru_  representative out of there alive, at any cost, whether Abby agrees or not.

 _“Who are you to accuse Ice Nation when you disregard all our laws and bring weaponry and accusations and violence into this ceremony and before the Commander,“_ a voice roars from the crowd. Whoever it is, he’s not wrong.

Abby puts herself directly between Pike’s raised weapon and an unknown target. His safety is off. “Pike, I swear to god,” She breathes, “stand down. You’ll get us killed.”

She sees Marcus move in front of Bellamy, right behind Clarke. Abby trusts Bellamy not to shoot Clarke inadvertently. She doesn’t trust Pike at all. Not after what he’s told her about their welcome from Nia.

Raven’s voice crackles through Bellamy’s walkie and in every part of the room.

_Bellamy, Bellamy, come in. The Grounders attacked Mount Weather._

_It's gone. It's gone. They're all gone. Sinclair and I and Gina are the only ones left. I'm so sorry._  

Raven sobs into the shocked hush of the throne room—Clarke’s only seen her mother’s face look like this twice: when Jake was killed, and when Abby confronted her about her part, what she knew about the missile attack at Tondc— her mother looks like she’s in agony.

Echo is Ice Nation, and the assassin is not with them in Polis.

* * *

Bellamy Blake is who he is to her, because his enraged despair gives Clarke the strength to stay in the city. She won't face  _her people_ —again, not now. Every single one of them has as much blood on their hands as she does. Bellamy needs to reckon with this on his own.

Clarke can’t go back, has to stay away, and she comes up with the most transparent reasons for it. Bellamy is furious. 

"Raven needs your help, mom. I can't imagine." Clarke can barely get the words out.

Abby looks like she's shaking off a dream. Farm Station moved there under her—

 _I hope you know what you’re doing_ he sneers through his grief at her. The hurt on his face is brutal. Good. It’s better that way.

“I have to make sure she keeps her word,” Clarke says.

Lexa immediately takes control from Pike and Bellamy, promising aid and telling them all to go and wait for her call, to marshal what forces they can.

Bellamy looks at Clarke like he’s never seen her before in his life. His disgust so apparent that Clarke becomes just another part of who they are to each other. There’s a river of death between them. Clarke draws her insensibility around her even closer and disappears in it. She can’t even look at Abby, so she turns away.

Marcus, out of all of them, is the one that understands.

* * *

When Lexa comes for her later, Clarke is not in her own rooms but has remained in the throne room. In the space of a few hours, Clarke has changed. Her face has grown as aquiline and gaunt as Roan’s. She’s grief-stricken. Her face shows that she’s been through too much even in the last few minutes, none of it pleasant.

“I keep asking myself,” Clarke watches her approach, “how did the Grounders know there was a self-destruct mechanism inside Mount Weather?" 

Lexa shakes her head, “No idea. Who from the Mountain people did you leave alive there? Who can live outside without the bone marrow treatments or blood transfusions?” There’s no accusation in the question, only an offer to strategize. 

Clarke is done reacting to mentions of her part in that offense. There’ll never be enough ways to make it right. There’s not enough dignity in the world she can access right now, or ever.

“Clarke,” Lexa moves closer, “I’m a warrior and a priest and symbol, born to my position and the inheritor of all the knowledge of a universal soul,” She hesitates, “and I am a stranger before you. Thank you for staying.”

“I stayed because it was the right thing for my people.” 

“Our people.”

Clarke can barely tolerate this. Lexa’s too close. Her proximity reminds her of her loved ones’ distance, her refusal to go back home where she belongs. She’s as lost as Roan, as adrift in herself as she’s ever been—and she hasn’t ever felt the bleakness as strongly as she does now. She belongs exactly nowhere. She lashes out, her unpracticed calm laced with bitterness, “If you betray me again—“

“I won't,” Lexa says simply because the implications of what she does next—if she gets anything wrong or misunderstands where Clarke is right now, misreads her in any way—the result will be catastrophic.

The moon is full. A shaft of light illuminates Clarke even more than the candles that still flicker around the room—turning her face into unreadable planes of light and dark.

Lexa’s heartbeat is an echo of an older universal cradlesong—it comes from so deep and easy a place inside her and from such peace that she does something utterly planned and unprecedented. She’s filled with the joy that seems to have fled every cell of Clarke’s body, and she kneels before Clarke and speaks to her in a voice meant for this woman and her alone.

The woman standing before her, the woman Clarke thinks of as Lexa, is no ordinary creature; and what she says to Clarke has never been said before by any Commander in the three generations since the Fall. It’s the easiest thing in the world; Lexa makes her it all look graceful, inevitable.

_I swear a fealty to you, Clarke kom Skaikru. I vow to treat your needs as my own and your people as my people._


	4. Chapter 4

Lexa's vow, her voice, is still soft in her ear. She's starting to think that staying in her rooms and drinking herself into oblivion would be a merciful thing.

Being near the Commander is paralyzing in ways she won't even name. She misses Roan more than she'll admit. She misses Lexa as soon as she leaves her alone with her shock and desires. She feels completely unremarkable in her absence. Lexa had looked at her in a way that had Clarke’s throat burning. She misses her mother, Bellamy, everyone. It's been one day.

She misses Abby so intensely she wants to curl up in a fetal position and basically die. Bellamy would be an asshole and she would know what to do. This is how diplomacy goes. She stayed on here in the city, and that's supposed to be the first step towards peace. It’s a transparent move. Incredibly, she didn't expect to feel any of this. She can't even read herself anymore—she’s merely being factual—and she needs time to prepare for whatever comes, and for who she's meant to be now.

Unless she reaches for Lexa to raise her up from where she knelt before her, or an adjustment between them during one of the sparring sessions over the past week, Lexa hasn't touched her with any intention beyond correcting her stance or a hold on her weapon since Roan delivered Clarke to the city for safety's sake—and political leverage.

Not for the first time, that sends Clarke into a fury of discomfort. She's crawling out of her skin to be touched; she’s had enough of polite conversation and court dinners and veiled discussions. She’s grateful to Niylah; the absolute release she gave her, the peace she had afterward for a few hours before she woke up in night sweats. She can’t allow herself delight again; it’s how she was captured.

She forces down some food, and she wants to be shit-faced drunk. It's not as enjoyable without Roan. Bellamy always said she was too serious, that she should have as many drinks as she wanted.

* * *

Clarke is one of the last to arrive in the Throne room. The summons came an hour ago, at dawn. She hasn't slept. She's unsettled. It's a good neutral term for the real turmoil she's in.

Lexa knelt before her. Swore her fealty. They were alone. There was no mistaking how monumental the gesture was. Clarke's hand reaching for Lexa's to help her to her feet was—oh for god's sake, it was the beginning of a stupid ridiculous love story or a really fucked up fairy tale.

Clarke rolls her eyes, and after sending a weak glare in Roan's direction throws herself in a chair near the back and somewhat out of the way. He can't miss it; she makes it screamingly obvious. Roan flatly ignores her. She covers her eyes with her hand and waits.

Everyone in the room has more power than she does.  _Wanheda_ —some kind of living energy rising from her depths she supposes—is a power she has yet to completely own. She knows time is running out for her unless she does. Too many Clans are hunting her, almost all of them would have killed her outright, and she's certainly not helping her own cause with Lexa.

She's placed herself in the position of Ambassador and bartered for everyone's safety. She's refused Lexa's offer for an early morning walk and a place beside her at table, consistently, every time. She's being petulant and irritating. She doesn't care. She can’t shake the living nightmare of the Commander— _Lexa_ —covered in dirt and blood, violating everything between them at the Mountain. She’ll never forget the sound of her own voice cracking with disbelief and despair.

She hates that she has to trust Lexa's power. That she has to take for granted the immense pleasure that power gives herself—and everyone who knelt to the Commander—last night. Right now representing the Thirteenth clan is just another way she can avoid everyone.

What even does an Ambassador do?

* * *

She finds out immediately.

Lexa stiffens in her seat almost imperceptibly and annoyance, _hatred_ , flares in her eyes. They had all risen at her entrance. They are all still standing when Lexa has Nia brought in and thrown at her feet.

Queen Nia is intimidating and malevolent as hell even on her knees. She seeks advantage even from her abject position, knows she's baiting the Commander when she speaks out of turn. She challenges Clarke's presence and her request for justice for Mount Weather. And Clarke tries to ignore the deeply pitying looks she’s getting from all corners of the throne room.

Clarke winces internally at the cynicism of what Nia's asking for. Mount Weather was a bane to all the Clans. Nia has killed Clarke's own people, forty-nine souls from Farm Station, people who should never have been there in the first place. Clarke curses out her mother furiously for allowing them to go to the Mountain, for utilizing the medical facilities, for colonizing the site of a massacre.

Clarke is a walking fraud because of the Arkadians blithe nonobservance of the Grounders suffering and she’s a puppet because she has no choice except to ask for retribution. It’s expected of her to pass judgment here. _It's expected of her_. She speaks the words by rote. Nia tests her, as she should. It's Lexa who answers.

"Who are you to challenge her presence here? Who are you to claim any knowledge of  _Skaikru's_  Ambassador's right to equity and call her place here into question? She's raised herself, above even me—she destroyed the Mountain for all of us. Something you and I couldn't do. None of us could. Your actions, your Clan,  _you_  in your arrogance stand in resistance of the whole Coalition," Lexa sweeps her gaze around the room, "None of us did what Clarke has done.  _She brought down the Mountain_. We barely survived it. Thousands of our people died there.  _Wanheda_ , out of everyone here—a stranger fallen from the sky—has the only right to call for your death."

Clarke instinctively recoils at that. She had no idea going in that she was asking for anyone's death. Murdering Lexa with her bare hands suddenly supplants all other thoughts. She could kill her. She desperately avoids looking at Roan. Fuck, what has she done now? She distracts herself with the absurd thought that the speech the Commander just gave is the most she's ever heard Lexa say in one go.

"Does it give you satisfaction to instill fear and loathing? Do your people love you for it?" Lexa asks the Queen, offhandedly, as if she's asking how she feels about the current glorious weather they've all been enjoying.

"I know what  _Wanheda_  is, even if every other Clan has no idea," The Queen snarls, "She's your pet. Kill her for all of us and be done with it. Why won’t you do it? I mean her every harm at my disposal."

"As of now, you are without a Clan. You have nothing for you."

"Lexa—" Nia narrows her eyes. She refuses to give Lexa her title. Even Clarke knows how this will go.

For one crazy minute, Clarke believes that Lexa is going to tear the Queen's throat out in front of all of them. Instead, the Commander leans forward and says quietly, "You dishonor yourself, the Thirteen Clans, our Coalition and the stewardship we share. Whatever is between us is between us— _you and I_. Do you think you can flaunt your influence in the seat of my influence? I have your son. I have  _Wanheda_."

Nia turns her head away so that Lexa can't see her eyes. Her gaze lands on Clarke, "I could take the girl by force, kill her in front of you, and feed you her entrails. Send you her head. My armies encircle the city. You know this."

"You're welcome to try."

The murmuring in the room has gotten louder with every back and forth of the exchange. The legions of Ice Nation waiting on the outskirts of the city have been known for days, and now that the threat has been made, the other Clans are justifiably uneasy. They are ridiculously inadequate.

She glances at Roan. He's staring at Lexa, a chill spreading through the air, a look of anger and sorrow on his face. Only Lexa seems unfazed.

"Say it," Lexa says softly. There's a hint of a caress in her tone, a warning so fierce Clarke flinches, "Say it, Nia. You've been waiting for years. Say her name."

Nia rises from the floor gracefully, even in chains, and Clarke immediately comprehends where Roan gets his poise. But Roan has none of his mother's viciousness. How in the world that happened, Clarke has no idea.

"Shall I say her name, Commander? Do you need a reminder of what I can do? Do you need an excuse to cut me down right here? You're weak enough as it is."

"Mother," Roan growls, "by all that's holy, enough. Even your sadism has limits."

"My dear boy. No, it doesn't." Nia answers easily enough, "I call for a vote of No Confidence."

The shadow within a shadow in Lexa's eyes disappears altogether and the smile that graces her features is filled with light, and pain finally lifted. It's a smile that comes straight from the Abyss.

Lexa waits out the obvious votes from all the Clan Ambassadors. Titus looks like he's about to have a heart attack. Too many of them have been bought or threatened or disagree with Lexa's inclusive policies outright and now have a platform to dispatch her. It's a coup. And it disturbs Clarke deeply.

"What is this?" She raises her voice, "How are you allowing this?" It comes out as a desperate accusation.

As her words reverberate, she hears how disappointed and appalled she is by Lexa’s inaction. This can't be right. She expected more. She’s seen Lexa kick a diplomat off a ledge, for chrissake.

Roan zeros in on her, "Do you have somewhat to say, Ambassador?"

Oh, right. "I refuse this. It's bullshit." Not her most eloquent, but it does the trick.

Titus comes back from the brink. "The vote is not unanimous," he stands," This vote of No Confidence fails. All of you who voted against the Commander will suffer the same fate as the Ice Queen."

"We don't recognize  _Skaikru's_  legitimacy."

Lexa notes which Ambassador says that and files it away. "Of course we do. You were at the ceremony yesterday. Their leaders took the brand." Clarke's pretty sure there's going to be one hell of a reckoning after this. Maybe it'll be a Purge because Lexa's capable of it— and why not—she's extremely pissed off now. Hiding it well, but holy shit. And she thought the infighting of the Ark Council was a mess.

"We both know what you want, Nia. If you think me unfit to command, issue the challenge and let's get on with it."

Nia rolls her eyes, "That took long enough. Very well, you're challenged. Do I need to do this formally?"

Lexa smiles and this time looks genuinely amused. "Of course not. Who will champion you?"

"My son. Prince Roan of Azgeda _._ "

"I do not choose to, Mother."

Clarke just stares at him; he's courting his own death either way.

"Then I must command you, Prince Roan," Lexa says.

It's a relief when Roan takes a deep breath before he grates out his answer like his sister just stole a favorite toy of his, and it’s comfortable to see them squabble. It is for Clarke, at least. It makes it seem like this will end in a food fight rather than straight up murder. "How can you?"

"Because my strength is in doubt, not your Mother's. She'll kill you outright for refusing to champion her, or you'll die by my hand. I don't have to tell you this." Lexa comes down the steps and across the room coming to a stop before him, "If you live? If you have a candidate for Commander you can put forth whom you choose. I want an opponent who's worthy of me, whether I die or not—your mother's not worthy of you, I am." She coaxes a small smile out of him, "Do me the honor, Prince, and I will honor you as best I can."

Roan hesitates only a second and then bows his head to Lexa for a long time in silence, in complete dignity, a Prince to his Lord.

The rest of the room takes the knee as well, except for Clarke who stands in protest—she doesn't even know why except that Roan and Lexa will kill each other. She tries to meet Lexa's eyes over the crowd, but Lexa is gazing only at Roan. In this covenant between them, there's no room for anyone else.

* * *

The shock wears off in all of an hour. What replaces it is a throbbing, radiant headache. She's going to lose one of the two people she—she can't go there. She can't. Not yet, if ever. There's no time now.

What makes it a little better is finding Lexa still in the throne room. Her plan doesn't go beyond pitching a fit but it's good enough. Lexa is seated, surrounded by the boys and girls Clarke saw with her earlier in the week when she'd come to find the Commander practicing with them. Lexa looks up and dismisses them all—except for the boy Clarke knows is a favorite. She motions Clarke forward.

"Clarke, this is Aden. The most promising of my novitiates; if I die today he'll likely be chosen in the Conclave."

"You sound like the Pope." Clarke snarls.

"Clarke's worried, Aden. Probably not about me," Lexa has a hint of a smile as she flicks her eyes to Clarke and then back to the boy, "She worries for her people. Tell her what will happen to the _Skaikru_  if you become  _Heda_ , Aden."

Aden stands before Clarke and looks at her earnestly, with great care. He holds his hand out, and she takes it. He tries to put her at ease, "If it happens, if I become  _Heda_ , I pledge myself to your people."

Aden smiles at Clarke and squeezes her hand one more time affectionately before he goes and he says another thing to settle her, " _Heda_  has sent an army to protect your clan, you have nothing to fear." Then he makes his way out.

Lexa fondly watches him leave and then rises from her seat to come stand before Clarke, With a sigh, she says, "See? Nothing to worry about. What's bothering you?"

It takes all of her concentration not to throw a chair. "You don't stand a chance against Roan."

At that, Lexa's expression shutters. She's—offended? "You've never seen me fight." Definitely exasperated.

"No, but I saw Roan kill three men in the time it took the first one to hit the ground."

Lexa pours herself some wine, offers her cup to Clarke after taking a sip, and Clarke shakes her head no. Lexa takes a long look at the amber-red liquid before drinking it all. "If you're right, today's the day my spirit will choose its successor."

Clarke's never experienced anything like this. She admires Lexa, hates her, thought she lov—she's attracted to her despite herself, perhaps because she's about to enter a deadly trial by combat by choice. It’s nothing more than that; her complete disregard for her own safety is infuriating.

"I'd kill you myself if I could," Clarke seethes, "for this."

"No doubt. And for many other things I've lost count of."

Clarke doesn't dare put herself in the oncoming horror, but she has no faith in anything anymore. Lexa is going to die. Her whole frame trembles as her feelings, all of them, twist their way through her. They expand and flow into nothingness and then fold in on themselves. They permeate everything she is, pulsating through her body and thoughts and her whole being aches with the idea—the loss of one of her—

She breaks out of the trance and advances on Lexa. She moves as if her life depends on it, and who knows, it may. She crowds into Lexa's space, a complete affront to the Commander's person—no one is allowed this close, and it isn't lost on either of them how many times this has happened before. Words are coming even as her vocal chords choke on them and her chest heaves for air. Lexa, arrogant and dismissive, she can handle. Lexa, uncaring of her own safety and Clarke's obvious concern? She can't. The dread is so heavy Clarke isn't breathing, so instead of saying anything she means, she shakes her head, incredulous, and stares stupidly at Lexa before giving herself over to a pain that burns distantly, all the time.

"I hate you," she says, strange and gentle.

It's true, at least that's true. Clarke steps closer. The words spill out of her so fast she can barely enunciate them. Clarke won't let Lexa respond, she refuses Lexa any control again. She's going to make sure they both drown in hate. Clarke is saying things, murmuring the most horrible shit. Anything to get Lexa to react; and then to shut her down. She's spewing every resentment, every betrayal, every hope she had for them, all the ways Lexa can't control herself or any of the Clans, every reason she want's Lexa dead and out of her life. Lexa lets her, and it gets worse from there, just for a second.

Lexa will survive the combat whether her body does or not, but she realizes Clarke doesn't think it troubles her. She's explained it as best she can. There's no worry here. Her spirit will always find Clarke; and will keep her vow.

The electricity in Clarke's touch is so welcome and so stunning that Lexa lets Clarke have her in any way she wants her; even if it's this torrent of abuse. She accepts the anger, wants the force of it. She's exhausted beyond words, surprised at herself that she would miss this world, miss this particular body she's in. She would miss Clarke's violence and passion and deliberate challenge to everything Lexa is.

She would miss Clarke in _this_ body. Clarke refuses to be careful with the gift they have between them because Lexa wasn't careful with her. Lexa knows that. Clarke needs to understand how much she wants to be careful with her. She will never get used to looking at Clarke's eyes, her hair. Never get used to the shock of touching her or being touched by her.

Lexa just manages to pull away enough to trace her hand over Clarke's face and throwing Clarke off balance, and Lexa ends up biting down fiercely on her own lower lip to keep silent—to not laugh with pleasure. She draws blood—it's an accident but the sharp and sweet tang of it centers her.

It's enough time that Lexa can take hold of Clarke's hands and entwine their fingers, draw both their hands up and around her own neck holding Clarke as close to her body as she can, holding her in place and then letting herself have the luxury of a long gentle swipe of her tongue down Clarke's neck. It draws a quiet moan from Clarke. It's like settling a big pissed off animal.

"You have to accept this." Lexa's voice is steady, as quiet as she can go, as gentle as she can be given their current position and extreme trespasses against each other. She pauses before she holds Clarke away from her with surprisingly little strength. "Clarke, my spirit—"

"I can't—won't— _love a twelve-year-old boy_ , Lexa."

That shocks Lexa almost out of her mind. She was talking about her duty as Commander not— _this space between is so immense, just one misstep after another_ —she lets Clarke go like she's holding her hand to a flame and stares at her helplessly. Lexa steps away as fast as she can, her expression freezing abruptly into something that looks a lot like she's been terrorized and then morphs into something utterly glacial.

Clarke curses herself. Light bursts behind her eyelids as she desperately tries to hold herself together—her pride, her body, her  _need_ , whatever. Objective, rational thought is nowhere within reach, and she's moments from literally throwing herself at Lexa's feet. The guards have finally gotten a clue and peer around the doorway. Lexa catches herself and waves them away. They disappear.

"You need to accept this," is all Lexa can manage. This fractured, nonsensical audience is over.

The best Clarke can do is retreat while she can. Fuck this.

"Like hell I do."

* * *

Roan keeps walking and barely glances at her. When he does, he stops in his long strides and straight up laughs in her face, "Oh my god, what did you do."

Back when she'd honestly believed that she was an innocent in all of this, that any personal relationship she could imagine was more important than survival, she would have asked him to run. She would have found two horses and supplies for weeks and she would have begged him to leave with her. It's been a long time, since she's felt like she can ask anything of anybody. She swipes at the black blood covering her face instead and starts to explain, but he's laughing way too hard. The way Clarke Griffin covers a nervous breakdown is with calculated rage. She rails at him.

He stops her with another roar of laughter. "You tried to poison my mother," he's choking with glee. He's practically crying. He grabs her hand and looks at the wound she's got for her efforts, "you're a mess. You just made the worst enemy you possibly could. You'd better pray that the Commander destroys me out there."

His mirth finally dies down and he lets her hand fall after tracing his fingers over the injury. "It's nothing, you won't even faint from it. But you're ridiculous," he sighs, "I can't do this with you right now—I have to prepare. Practice. Warm up. My mother has something to say to me beforehand. I've been summoned." He rolls his eyes.

"You're going to die."

Roan doesn't respond; he's looking beyond her, over her shoulder.

"She said that to me too just now," and suddenly Lexa is there.

"I'm sure," Roan says. He looks at Clarke again, frowning. "It's true. One of us will die today."

"In fact," Lexa adds, "It's terrible luck for us to be in the same room before the—"

Clarke blushes furiously. She’s reacting viscerally to Lexa's presence and Roan's words. She's not meant to feel anything about this except concern for  _Skaikru_  and a dispassionate interest in the outcome of today's trial by combat, whichever one of these idiots die.

Roan's right. She's made a terrible political move. Lexa looks over at her sharply. She can feel Lexa's tense embarrassment and concern for her because this hellish position—her complete fuck up—makes her vulnerable now and there's a 50% chance her people are as good as dead.

"The blood is black," Lexa says. She brings Clarke out of the shadows, "Didn't you see it, Roan?"

Roan grunts, "Too busy laughing. Sorry?"

He touches Clarke's face and draws his fingers away, "Mother has her own Nightblood. Interesting," He smiles at Clarke, "See? You're good for something."

"When a Nightblood child is found, they're brought here to train, or that's what should happen." Lexa explains, "did you know?" she doesn't really think Roan is unaware of anything his mother does and the look on his face confirms it.

"Well, now we know why she challenged you," he says.

"Lexa, your blood is this color," Clarke's eyes widen as she gets a good look at it.

"Look how quick you are." Roan snorts. "Natblida. Nightblood. Goes back to the first Commander."

Roan knows when to make an exit. He nods to them both. " _Heda_." 

Lexa reaches over to him and touches the back of his neck. He stills under her hand and closes his eyes.

Then he turns to Clarke, takes her face in his hands and lifts her chin up so she can see him. He looks at her and leans into her ear, soft and sympathetic, "Don't wash it off, the nightblood, you wear it beautifully." He says it only to her. He takes a ring off his sword hand and places it in her palm, closes her hand around it. He kisses her ceremoniously and steps back.

"Soon," Lexa says.

"Yes."

And he's gone. They both watch him depart.

"I can't just let Roan kill you," Clarke says, without looking at Lexa. This is terrifying, and maybe that's why she's lashing out, but the reality of this is that she's been out-maneuvered by two of the most astute strategists she's ever met. She has no idea what Lexa's fighting skill level is and she knows Roan’s and she'll probably lose them both. These two don't need anything. Clarke needs them. Within a week, she needs them. Even her relationship with Abby is less fraught than this.

"That's the second time you've insulted me, Clarke." Lexa darkens tightly coiled anger. "More deserving people than you have died for it."

"You're playing directly into her hands." Clarke's defiant, still. "I won't watch you die."

Lexa softens; she's still irritated but it's the way Roan has looked at Clarke before, like she's an overtired child who needs a story. "Let me go."

Her eyes are older than Clarke has ever seen and contain an ancient and confident love, "There's no champion but for me. You can't fix this. I have to do this on my own, and you have to let me."

And then, She repeats what she said before, so quietly Clarke can't be sure she's heard it, "You've never seen me fight."

It's not until minutes later that Clarke notices Titus at the far end of the corridor. He nods to her after a time, and then she's really alone.

* * *

The crowds flow from the shadows of the labyrinthine old quarter into the arena, spilling over into the square and the surrounding market area, down the avenues and side streets. The heat is brutal for this late in the afternoon and the dust covers everything, floats through the air making it hard to breath—everything is wrong for this—and she can't move through the thick walls of bodies fast enough. She can hear the roar of the crowd; it ebbs and flows with her heartbeat as she pushes her way more and more violently as her determination grows. She almost didn't come.  
  
She grabs the Comm that Abby thrust into her hand before they left and dials the codes. She wants to speak to someone sane, she'd wanted her father to answer her. When Abby responds Clarke can barely get anything out.

Her throat constricts around the words, " _Mom, I_ —" that's all she can manage and she cries, just bursts into tears, sobbing and sliding off the bed to the ground.

She can hear Abby trying to talk her down, she's saying all the right words but Clarke can't do this and she signs off quickly, as fast as she can, only making sure Abby knows she's fine.

From her room she can see the Arena. There should have been the briefest glimpse of calm, then the chaos of a ferocious fight between equals and then… nothing. She can see nothing ahead of her and that's what finally transports her.

The cowl over her head shields her from the sun and hides the unwashed blood on her face from anyone who glances her way, but no one's looking at her. The whole city has turned out for this and she’s one person amongst thousands. She moves as quickly as she did in the forests, down deer trails and meadows, on the edge of the woods, out of the way. She makes it to the wide-open plain of the grounds in minutes.

Clarke will never really know her place here without her mother or her father, but it’s always been up to her to forgive them. 

"I'm not a good person," She'd said to Abby, "you were right about TonDC. I fucked up the Mountain. I manipulate people, and I might try to get away from you all again someday."

Abby shrugs, an eyebrow lifting in amusement. _Who do you think you got that from, honey?_

Lexa's relentless nature also challenges Clarke's ability to move through the thickness of this world. It's a life force inside of both of them. They all have their edges, just rough enough that they cut through niceties and strain the bonds of everyone around them. And for once, she remembers how much she loves her mother—in exposing Jake she'd trusted Jaha to handle it like a sane leader. He didn't and Abby had to live with the awful consequences, so did Wells. She's so like her mother. The foreboding, as she looks at the position the sun is in, settles in her stomach.

Clarke, like Abby, like Jake, sees the intricate and the delicate. She sees the supple filaments and pathways of living bodies. Three healers. Souls who fix things and people. Her anger is Abby's. Her vulnerability is Abby's. She's her child. Her righteousness is Jake's, her recklessness. It's all woven together.

So she has to go forward—never back—she has to follow her mother into the dark night of her soul. Abby is as lonely as she is. She wishes with her whole being that her mother was here with her now. She may never see any of them again. She can only go forward and witness her two friends.

The litany of friends’ names she murmurs so often begins again. She pushes her way through the last of the crowd, to the edge of the killing field. Lexa is there and the terms have been called. It's begun. Clarke's right there as Lexa reaches for her sword; her back unprotected as Roan comes for her.

Lexa looks at her instead of him, says _I'm glad you came_ , and the sun catches her eyes. "Clarke, step back please."

She has no need to raise her voice but there's every bit of authority she's earned in her life, and in all respects a goodbye in her words.

Clarke doesn't know how she hasn't seen it. It's been right in front of her since the day they met. Lexa's expression is an unearthly calm, and she's otherwise than Roan in his battle rage. Inhuman. No matter what happens today, Death can't touch her.


	5. Chapter 5

Lexa in battle is terrifying—an illumination that extinguishes itself and reforms within and between movement and time—both vulnerable and amused. Clarke wonders who she thinks she’s known over all of these weeks and months. Lexa spares not one glance towards her or the crowds. Her love now is only for Roan.

No one should be able to witness this. The light pouring through the crowds has begun to breathe on its own, darker, nuanced and no one’s heart beats except for the two warriors in the arena. Their movements are sharper, fluid, and more violent than Clarke thought either of them capable of. They  _will_  kill each other. Clarke actually laughs—she’d thought they might have worked something else out between them, another way. But that’s not who they are. That’s not what they’ve agreed to.

His strength, his speed, his agility, and his honed killing instincts don’t protect him from the pain he feels every time Lexa parries and throws him off, every time she counters with a  _normal_  fighting technique. They know each other’s weaknesses from years of training—she can see that. And every time one of them is forced into a position where the sun is in their eyes Clarke flinches for them both.

However fearsome their contest is to watch, it’s beyond cruel for both combatants. They’re tearing at each other in a blind fury—they destroy each other at close range without weapons. _With_ weapons, they’ve already sliced each other into the ground. Roan had started with blood on his face, red blood from the practice match he’d endured to warm up. Now, both of them are bleeding. Black and Red intermingle and coagulate on the ground, sinking into the loam beneath them, dripping and spattered onto each other’s bodies.

She snaps out of her terror just as Lexa’s thrown to her knees. Roan’s managed to wrench the commander's swords away, and she bites into his wrist where he holds one of them inches from her face. He’s bearing down on her with immense strength, and the blade cuts through the skin of her hand straight to the bone. Her blood slides down the blade’s edge and she bares her teeth at him, her first sign of any emotion. He’s been all impulse and brutal suppleness but she's been cold, like ice, and frighteningly calculated. He takes one hand from the sword and swings it at Lexa’s face like a blacksmith’s hammer. The whole crowd hears the crack—blood sprays from Lexa’s cheek and arcs into the crowd. She shouldn’t be conscious after that.

Lexa uses Roan’s forward motion to tear the sword out of his hand, but he’s already righted himself and kicks her squarely in her chest, sending her flying back and skidding along the ground, vulnerable and stunned. Clarke sees the air leave Lexa’s lungs—explosively—she’s hit the ground so hard.

Roan roars, sprints forward, and slams a guard in the face while ripping the spear from the poor man’s hand. His relentless motion doesn’t stop until he’s straddling Lexa with the spear poised to end her. The next breath Clarke takes is through fire because this is the end. Roan and Lexa look at each other, of course they do. Both of them are leaders and royalty—neither of them shies away from the dramatic in the slightest. The crowd stills.

Lexa rolls just as the spear comes down, and she trips Roan, sweeping his feet out from under him. Red gore and matter mists from his ears and nose where her other kick lands. She’d been going for his neck and should have snapped it, but his reflexes are so quick and ingrained, he knows when and where the killing blow was coming from, what angle, and he’s expected it. It stuns him. Roan scrabbled at the ground, unprotected and Lexa beats him mercilessly. Clarke finally turns away—she can’t watch this. The crowd has found its voice, or Clarke’s isolation is falling away rapidly—she can hear the whole city shake with the sound.

Roan has lost so much blood and has too many muscles torn, more than Lexa—that’s the only advantage she has on him. His strength is ebbing, and Lexa has dropped down to the realm of mortals. She’s feral and she howls in pure rage and frustration. She stops and swings herself around, without taking her eyes from his, to sweep the discarded spear into her hands off the ground. She rises from his chest and sways over him, spitting blood into his face.

Time stops. Clarke breathes dust and pain. Sunlight blazes down on her, and she turns away out of shame. She can’t watch this. She’s drifting in empty space, a child walking into a scene that will shatter her innocence for good.

She turns, and Abby is there. So is Raven. Her eyes widen, and she stumbles against her mother. Abby says nothing. Dimly, Clarke’s aware that her mother wears the clothes she used to wear on the Ark, her medical uniform. Her hair’s in a thick braid, something Clarke knows Abby abandoned as soon as she came to Earth. Raven stands quietly. No brace, no welcome in her eyes, vacant of recognition; appraising. The light fades around them. They’re shrouded in shadow. Standing just behind the two women is a third woman, cloaked, black hair, bright red dress—who smiles at her. Looks at her, her eyes alight with curiosity.

Abby reaches for Clarke’s face and grabs her by the hair, forces her back towards the scene unfolding before them. Her mother’s hands are unyielding, harsh. Clarke struggles with a soft whine. Abby’s hands tighten, and time flows again.

A horrendous, vile scream rises above the din of the crowds. Queen Nia is raining down invectives and curses on her son, disowning and humiliating him moments before the killing blow. She’s taunting him and destroying whatever peace he can find in his last seconds on earth. Clarke feels rather than hears him say something to Lexa— _finish it_ —his face is barely recognizable through the ghastly visage of flesh and bone and blood. She murmurs something back to him, her voice shaking with emotion, fatigue, and regret. 

Lexa pivots and lets the spear fly with strength out of myth. It’s at least fifty yards from where Lexa stands to where Queen Nia sits on the raised platform. The flung, living thing sings through the air and finds its mark. The impact rips the Queen’s heart straight through her body and into the back of the elevated chair. Later, it will take six men to pull the weapon out.

Lexa stands alone in the setting sun’s light, motes of sunlit dust settling around her. She doesn’t wipe her face of blood. Clarke thinks of the iridescent butterflies she and Octavia found during their first days on the ground. The beautiful world they discovered and the lethal underworld alongside it. Lexa casts her eyes around, coming out of a deep, half-conscious state. She doesn’t acknowledge the crowd’s reaction or the spectacle. She doesn’t react to the roar of her name, over and over and over. Even Roan is forgotten.

Her gaze settles on Clarke. Clarke is on her knees—her position mirroring Roan’s. Abby’s hands no longer hold her up and she’s slipped down into the reassurance that the earth beneath her is real and what she’s seen is true. Clarke’s mind spins with gratitude and relief. She closes her eyes and lowers her head.

When she shakes the extreme weariness and relief off and can stand again—almost an hour later in a suspended soft dusk—she’s practically the only one left near the arena. She looks around for Abby and Raven—they’re gone.

* * *

After an intense bout of shop work, an equally intense upper body session and her stretching exercises—Raven's still sleeping little and eating less—she pushes away from her work area and kneads and pulls at her sore muscles. Some honest-to-god time to herself seems a little bit miraculous, a break from the failure of her body.

The ringing in her ears has long since gone, but she's exhibiting pretty severe PTSD since the Mountain blew. She can't sleep, the dead are too present. Sinclair is relatively back to his old self, although she sees him stare into space for too long and he takes his meals to his room far too often. She hasn't answered any of Pike's questions because she doesn't know anything. And Bellamy won't talk to her. He's not even doing much for Gina. 

Abby is the only one she really wants to talk to. She'd come back from Polis professional, competent and willing to look Raven in the eyes. She took a moment to search her face.

“Last chances.” Abby murmured. And then she had tended to Gina.

Raven takes a pack of good thick bread found in deep freeze in Mount Weather’s vast kitchens and strong cheese, a bit of salted meat—she snags a bottle of wine from Gina’s bar. She wanders towards the gates, nodding at the guard after making sure that the patrols are in fact out in this area this late in the afternoon. She’s not nervous, but she’s not suicidal either.

Her favorite spot is only a klick away from the west side of the encampment and has the charming aura of being somewhere outside of everything else—or at least untouched by the world. There’s a lake there, surrounded by gentle foothills and Douglas fir, some Subalpine firs, soaring rugged terrain far off that reflects the last of the sun.

At night it’s a spray of starlight. Sometimes luminescent butterflies congregate there. She’s met Octavia several times to see them, and they sat together watching that mystery unfold around them. They’ve talked of Lincoln, Indra and most surprisingly, Clarke.  _I gave her the blade to kill Finn._  She’s not quite sure how much the landscape has changed from 97 years ago. Probably not much, but she’d have to go back to her notebooks and the digital files.

She spends a childlike next half hour of leisurely-paced eating and noodling around in her head— sketching out some half-realized equations. Generating torsion fields, roughing out hibernation biology, suspended animation, cryonics. She’s tired of radios and fixing turbines and laying pipe, mending fences.

She makes an unexpectedly clumsy rough gesture in her notebook and loses her train of thought, loses some of her zen. God, she’s a short fuse lately, more fearful than any other time in her life. She knows how good she is, she knows what she’s fit for—she used to be able to come and go as she pleased, able-bodied.

She relaxes muscles, sends deliberate signals from her brain to patterns connecting patterns, nerve endings, and blood, hoping some of this solitude reaches her center. Something so simple as peace. A phrase of tonic and dominant, four notes, thinking about DNA usually settles her. She’s actually not quite sure why she’s not back in the canteen, surrounded by people—she could use a good game of cards, a stiff drink.

It feels like it could happen for her—peace. This little corner of their territory is hallowed ground to her, found by moving her eyes off of the group walking in front of her on work detail and looking over her shoulder one day. She’d looked up to the sky where they’d all come from. She’s only ever seen water like this in old transcript tapes, lovely flowers. She watches the sun, dimming through red and gold stages beyond the mountains, a rising moon hitting the high meadows.

Maybe it’s the kind of dream she used to have. And with that thought, something tugs at her, and she wants a bit of chaos again, she wants the mess hall and warm bodies, music. She knows peace isn’t for her.

* * *

The young guy, Raven never asks his name, is below average height but very muscular, easy going. He’s as drunk as she is. He has a kind smile and blue eyes; he’s pretty sweet, not too bright. They walk through the night together, past Farm Station patrols, and shame clouds his open features for a minute. Raven’s surprised to see any kind of dissent, even half-formed from that sector.

He’s from Farm Station and he knows what Pike and Bellamy and eight others have done. Raven’s only heard rumors.

She and Abby aren’t speaking. It’s deteriorated so badly since Raven and Sinclair came back from Mount Weather. Raven’s withdrawn to the point of insult. Sinclair and Gina are the only ones she’ll talk to. Abby’s regulated her to the camp, where she can sit; fix things without straining her legs or hip. She’s been about as emasculated as a person of her capabilities can be. The 49 dead from Farm Station means 49 shots before bed and no conversation. For the first time, she can remember doesn’t care what Abby is thinking or feeling. They couldn’t even offer anyone the ashes. There was nothing from the Mountain to scavenge after it blew.

Raven smiles at the gorgeous and sweet halfwit she has in tow and turns away, not bothering to notice if he’s following or not.

They wander aimlessly back towards her room and finish off the bottle of wine Raven has in her pack. Sprawl out on her bed and talk about nothing difficult. He’s immediately affectionate in a shy sort of way and laughs easily. When he has nothing left to say he recounts what happened out in the night, how they executed the wounded. He starts shivering. How Pike will lead them to a place of peace and sustainability even though Raven could probably fill in the details of every single thing that’s wrong with what they’ve done. She imagines the phrase  _slaughtering innocents_  is wildly too complicated for him and she lets him ramble; she sees the horror in his eyes, the sickness.

She doesn’t have the will to point out the mirrored actions, the Farm station children; and the cycle that’s been set into motion. She can’t even touch the extreme change in Bellamy, but somewhere she understands it. Her pain is physical and emotional; an advanced form of PTSD (someone had told her, probably Abby.) She understands Bellamy. They’re both a mess. But he had asked her, the only one who did, “Where’s the Raven I know? You’re the happiest person I’ve ever met.”

After the last fight with Abby, she understands him. Kane and Abby failed miserably at peace, failed him. Clarke is playing Grounder Queen, and Bellamy joins the ranks of mass-murderers.

_“Abby? I just showed up for work and found out you fired me. “_

_“I don't fire people.”_

_“Not clearing me medically is the same thing. My leg is fine.”_

_“No, it's not. And riding a patrol and working that wall is making your conditions worse. “_

_“So what, do nothing? That's gonna make my leg heal?”_

_“No. Your leg is never going to heal. Our goal is pain reduction... that's it... and if you keep pushing this hard, even that's not going to happen. You can still be useful.”_

Useful.

* * *

She and the kid, she doesn’t even know his name, talk until there’s really nothing left to say. Raven pulls him into her arms, settles him on top of her. He reaches down and undoes her brace without making a big fucking deal about it and kisses her, his tongue runs across her bottom lip and she opens to him. She feels him undo his pants, lets him undress her, not struggling at all with anything, not needing anything rough for once in a long time, just letting the warmth of him and the alcohol infuse her limbs. He lets her do whatever she wants; she strokes him and watches him closely. Watches how his face relaxes and his body twitches and they fumble around just kind of happy to be there and when she’s got him hard he turns her on her belly, whispers "okay?" and he stretches his body on top of her, smoothing his hands along her sides and underneath her stomach until her wetness coats his fingers. She raises up to let him pull off her shirt. He shifts two fingers into her. She can’t move that much under him and she likes it; she doesn’t have to do a thing, she doesn’t have to think about anything except her own pleasure. She lets herself drown in the flood of her arousal—it’s been a long time.

He removes his hand and enters her in an uncoordinated, uneasy movement. She brings her head back and turns it slightly to kiss him, comfort him until he can manage himself and finds that his arousal is overwhelming his uncertainty.  _Useful_. She’s so wet already and she's patient and he manages, finally, an effortless rhythm. She rides it for a long time; she knows this cadence from the opiates. There’s no pain, and she glides on the edge of oblivion for a long, long time. When she turns her head, she can see the candle flickering, the soft light cradles her, and she comes on her next exhale.

* * *

That’s how Abby finds her later.

The candle has melted down almost to the end of its life, and Raven is sprawled in bed with a boy. They’re both sound asleep. The light flickers over Raven’s loose, rich dark hair. Abby watches her for a moment, her graceful, lithe body looks as about relaxed as one can be. Her toned arms stretching over her head lift her breasts; they’re perfect. Their entwined bodies are beautiful together, actually. Strong, young animals. They curve together like cubs, and the dip right above Raven’s hip flickers in the sparse light. His hand splays across her abdomen, just resting there. Solid.

Abby leans against the door watching them. Raven must not be as deeply asleep as she seems. Her eyes open and focus across the room. She tolerates being observed like this, likes Abby’s slightly amused gaze, basks in it. They watch each other, compelled to do absolutely nothing else. When else has it ever been this quiet for them, for anyone, since landing here on the ground?

“Chancellor,” Raven finally says.

“Not Chancellor anymore,” Abby pushes off the door looking more haunted than Raven’s ever seen her, and steps into the room. Raven makes no move to cover her nakedness or disentangle herself in any way. She’s comfortable and warm. She dozes.

And then Raven wakes up again and moves to get out of bed. The boy grumps softly at the change in warmth and turns over, still asleep. Abby steps forward, brushing gently past Raven, and covers him with the blanket. Raven walks to the other side of the room taking care to favor her good leg, opens a chest and pulls out another woven quilt. She drapes that over her shoulders and reaches under the work table where she keeps another bottle of whiskey. Abby rekindles the fire.

Raven holds the bottle of amber liquid up and grins. She grabs two large tumblers before easing herself towards the makeshift sofa near the fire pit, and gestures for Abby to join her. Abby stands up and meets her halfway, taking hold of the blanket and shifting it carefully over Raven's shoulders, wrapping her up in it, making sure she's covered and not chilled. Raven lets her. She accepts Abby's help the rest of the way to the couch, lets her ease her down. She sits—close enough to Raven that they can talk softly.

“One of my instructors once showed me that a drinking glass is actually a data structure, informing centuries-old whiskey where to go.” Raven pours herself two fingers and holds it up to the light, her eyes the same rich brown shot through with gold, before taking a long swallow. She pours another two fingers and hands it to Abby.

“Are you here as my ex-Chancellor or my Doctor?” Raven stares at the fire, “Because I don't want to talk to one of you.”

“I'm here as your friend.” Abby rests her head back on the edge of the couch and rolls her head to look at her.

“Good. Shut up and drink.”

They sit together for a long time. The boy sleeps. Rain falls gently outside; Raven is drowsy and happy.

“Did you ever tell her I loved her?” Abby looks down at her hands, swirls the liquid in the glass they’ve been sharing, and drinks the last of it.

Raven sits forward, the blanket falls off one side of her shoulder as she takes the tumbler from Abby’s hand, puts it down and just grabs the bottle.

“I didn’t know if they floated you. I didn’t know if you were dead. I was—Clarke found me.”

She looks at Abby then, like she’s given her a prize. The woman is staring off into the flames. She does it so quickly, goes away like this; it makes Raven breathless. She tries again, confused. Raven’s emotional reflexes are way off; she’s drowsy and her leg is hurting. She raises the quilt to her shoulders, her hands clumsy and awkward. It’s a flawed effort—something to do.

“Abby, listen,” Raven says, “Clarke found me. In the pod. I was alive after re-entry. I was on Earth.” 

* * *

_“Hi.” She’d said. And this beautiful blue-eyed, lion-maned girl was there, who smiled, and she took Raven carefully out of the interior, laughing. Free, unfettered, and if you listened close enough, tinged with an underlying pain. She’d only seen one other person laugh like that—Abby._

_For the next twenty minutes, Raven just gapes. She throws her head back and throws her arms out and spins herself around, and breathes in everything. She twirls around looking at the world. It’s like nothing she has even hoped for._

_Clarke watches her, lips parted with surprise._   _“Oh my God.”_

_“Is this rain?”_

_“Yes. Welcome Home.”_

* * *

”It was  _everything._  I couldn’t have even conceived it would smell like that, the air. I was bleeding and it was raining. Finn was with Clarke—”

Abby stops her abruptly. “Raven, did you tell her?”

“No, Abby, not right then. You have no idea what it was like—”

“Actually, I do.”

Raven nods, of course Abby knows what that first breath of clear, spring air was like—what is she even saying right now. She starts to feel drunkenly miserable.

“Raven," Abby says.

* * *

_Raven pulls away from Finn, stares at the girl. “You’re Clarke?” This is crazy. What are the odds? She shakes her head to clear it, “You don’t understand, this—“ She gestures wildly at the wreckage behind her, “was all because of your mom.”_

_Clarke’s face is completely transparent; she’s definitely like her mother that way. Abby's face can be a map of faint lines of care and sorrow, but most of all, wonder. Raven can see about a hundred emotions all at once in Clarke’s eyes and they settle on something dark, unwelcome, uneasy._

_“My mom?” Clarke repeats, barely able to hide her shock._

_Raven nods, “This was all her plan. We were trying to come down here together. If we waited—“_

_“Oh, my God.” Clarke can’t seem to get it together; Raven doesn’t blame her. This is legitimately crazy. And they have NO time._

_“We couldn't wait because the council was voting whether to kill 300 people to save air. People are dying of oxygen deprivation.”_

_That stops Clarke cold._   _“When?” Clarke says, “ My father said we had—“_

_“Today.”_

_And then, holy shit, she doesn't feel good at all. She almost passes out._

* * *

Raven's survival instincts kick in out of nowhere; she expects another slap. They need to talk about that slap at some point.

“You don’t think I told her. You think that’s one of the reasons she’s gone.”

Abby runs a hand over her face, “You had to build the flares immediately. You had to tell us you were alive.” She says it as if she’s reciting a checklist or a council agenda.

“Yes. The radio was—” Raven doesn’t want to rat out Bellamy. ”The radio was fried.”

Raven doesn’t even know what to do. She’s never seen Abby like this before, never truly experienced her as someone who might not trust her.

She lashes out, “Can we go back to talking about my ‘boyfriends’ being inept morons or whatever is safe to talk about, because this is you not being able to talk to me about anything real. What happened on the Ark that day Abby, do you seriously think the kill order was your sole responsibility? What happened between you and Clarke after TonDC? Seriously, what happened between you and Clarke? Because that—”

“Raven, wait,” The color drains from Abby’s face, and she relents. She comes back slowly from a very far place—a region that has no room for anyone else—somewhere Raven’s never felt less welcome. “I’m sorry. Go on. Tell me like it’s a story.”

 _“Abby,”_  Raven regroups and glances down at her bare feet. “We were going to lose everything, and yes, I took some of that precious time to tell her that you loved her.”

* * *

_“I've never seen anyone love someone the way she loves you. You know that, right? I did.” Raven yells down to where Clarke is floundering around trying to find THE ORANGE WIRE, because who can’t find a big, orange wire. Why is everything so hard for people?_

_“It’s complicated,” comes the answer and Raven’s not sure she heard correctly, and then it doesn’t matter because they are **really fucked**  if Clarke can't find that big, obvious, orange wire._

* * *

Abby’s face reverts to a desperate mask of pain. Pain and something else Raven knows far too much about—self-loathing.

Raven sinks down carefully to her knees and reaches out to touch Abby’s face. Abby shies away, and Raven tries not to be hurt. This isn’t about her.

“Abby, what? I don’t understand. What do you think you did? What’s going on here?” She asks roughly. She can’t get enough questions out as fast as she needs to.

Abby closes her eyes. “Raven, just let me... I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I know you. I trust you.” 

That’s not what she’s asked, and she’s not an idiot, she knows when a conversation is being shut down. A conversation where she has no idea what was being talked about, or who was actually in the room having the exchange. 

“Okay,” she whispers, “Okay. I’m going to put some clothes on,” she says to no one, really.

She roots around for her brace and buckles it back on efficiently. Finds her underwear and her shirt and tries to act as if the world didn’t just go wildly off its axis.

“I don’t know what you want me to do right now,” she says.

Now she's angry, a little. They were talking normally, about nothing and everything. It had been good.

“Clarke knew about the missile. TonDC, that night—she knew it was coming, she knew. She told Lexa—“

“Oh, my God. Bellamy— over the Comm. He was worried about Octavia. He was wondering if TonDC had been evacuated.”

"I wasn’t kind," Abby says, and then her entire face crumples, desperate with guilt and sadness. "I was in shock—"

Raven feels her heart convulse. "She knew," she gasps before she can stop herself. “She knew and she let it happen.”

Abby nods.

“No. That’s not why she left. It wasn't because of you. You know that.”

“No, Raven. I don’t.”

* * *

The boy they forgot stirs and sits up. He squints at both of them and then spit-takes back to Abby. Sits straight up in bed at attention. “Oh shit. Chancell—“ Then the dope stops, flustered and like an idiot continues, ”—I’m sorry, shit.”

Abby just looks at him.

Well, that changes the mood. Raven spins around and places herself between them so they’re out of each other’s sight line. “Heyyyy sleepyhead. It was fun. I think you have a report to make.”

“Yes, I do.”

Raven throws his clothes at him, hands him his weapon. “Go away, please.”

He does. That rights her world. She told someone what to do and they did it.

Raven turns back to Abby. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Sure.” Abby pats the sofa next to her and Raven sits again.

“I’m pretty drunk,” Raven says.

“I’m magnificently drunk, so it’s okay. I’ll be able to understand whatever it is,” Abby leans back.

“I’ve been having visions, night terrors, dreams. They scare me.”

“You’ve been through a lot.” Abby's voice is soft now, "You don't scare easily." 

“I don’t think—I feel stupid telling you this, they feel foreign and like a heightened reality, lucid dreams. Not like the re-entry when I thought I might die. Not like the—I’m dreaming of things that happened to me, yeah, but it’s like an intelligence is just sifting through all of me like I’m a data storage bank, a cloud it can take information from. Anything.”

“You’ve been taking more morphine than I’ve prescribed.”

“No.”

Abby makes a small noise.

“No, I haven’t.”

"Raven." Abby changes tactics. "It’s like the earth speaks to you while you're sleeping?”

“Wait, what? How did you kno—“ Raven startles, “It’s happening to you, too?”

Abby nods.

Raven cocks her head as if listening to a high-pitched sound wave just beyond hearing range, “Mine’s not the earth. Mine’s something else.” Abby’s eyes have shifted over her shoulder at something, someone. She begins to disentangle herself from her blanket.

"Jaha."

Raven knocks some of the whiskey off the low table near her side of the bed. “ _Fuck.”_ She bitches. Can’t anybody knock? 

Jaha enters through the doorway raises his hands in peace with a lopsided smile. He’s been very odd since he’s returned. Happy. But fucked up. He kind of wanders around and just starts conversations, like someone’s weird uncle.

“I’ve been doing some reading. Want to hear?” He comes closer and stands at a very nonchalant parade rest in front of them. Abby looks like she’s making a huge effort to keep from laughing at him. Jaha nods at Raven and continues.

Jaha clears his throat, “A woman asked William Blake what visions are. How he experienced them. Visions, says Blake, come from the mind. Do you know who Blake is?”

Raven waves that away, she’s annoyed now. Of course, she knows William Blake. She’s a rocket scientist. “That’s in The Gospel of the Magdalene, too.”

“Blake answered the woman ‘Here, Madame.’” Jaha reaches down and traces his hand over Raven’s forehead, holds a finger there, “And Blake taps his forehead.”

Raven gazes up at him, “Christ totally says the same thing, in between kissing Mary Magdalene and offending the hell out of most of the other Apostles.”

“Okay,” Jaha smiles, a little annoyed maybe but he hides it behind an aloof exterior and stops talking.

Jaha hefts a paperback so they can see, “I was just trying to find you to give you this. I saw a very disheveled guard, and he told me where you both were.”

He smiles at Abby, who has no recollection of asking for anything from Jaha, “Here’s your book.” he rifles through the pages. “Do you know what I love about Ginsberg, Raven?”

Raven shakes her head and rests it on her hand to listen. She’s tired. There’s been a cataclysmic shift in power, a three hundred strong peace-keeping army of Lexa’s people have been slaughtered, and Jaha wants to talk about poetry.

“He has these gorgeous thoughts on lineage, poetic lineage. He talks about Walt Whitman.” Jaha looks at both of them. “Whitman assumes,  _assumes_ , you will know him in 100 years from the time he writes to you, his kind of prophecy was just as solid and real as snowcapped mountain ranges.”

Raven startles. How could Jaha know about  _her mountains_ , the ranges she looks at every day she can.

Jaha takes one of the books back from Abby. “May I read you something?”

They both nod yes and he settles himself on the floor. He finds the page and starts to read.

_"The dogs meditated on their paws. We were all absolutely quiet. The entire moony countryside was frosty silent, not even the little tick of rabbits or coons anywhere. An absolute cold blessed silence. Maybe a dog barking five miles away toward Sandy Cross. Just the faintest, faintest sound of big trucks rolling out the night on 301, about twelve miles away, and of course the distant occasional Diesel baugh of the Atlantic Coast Line passenger and freight trains going north and south to New York and Florida. A blessed night."_

"That's Kerouac, Thelonius." Abby settles into Raven. It's warm. It's nice.

Jaha ignores her.

_"I immediately fell into a blank thoughtless trance wherein it was again revealed to me "This thinking has stopped" and I sighed because I didn't have to think anymore and felt my whole body sink into a blessedness surely to be believed, completely relaxed and at peace with all the ephemeral world of dream and dreamer and the dreaming itself. All kinds of thoughts, too, like "One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls" and I reached out and stroked old Bob, who looked at me satisfied. "All living and dying things like these dogs and me coming and going without any duration or self-substance, O God, and therefore we can't possibly exist. How strange, how worthy, how good for us! What a horror it would have been if the world was real because if the world was real, it would be immortal." My nylon poncho protected me from the cold, like a fitted-on tent, and I stayed a long time sitting crosslegged in the winter midnight woods, about an hour."_

* * *

Kane joins them at some point. He takes over the readings from Jaha.

Raven and Abby listen to both of them for the rest of the night. Their low, even voices are soothing. Different passages. Different scenes. Familiar consciousnesses from the distant past.

Raven thought that she could recite the unexpected words on the page before Kane did, hear the voices of men and women, count the miles of roads traveled, wondered at the destruction 97 years ago. She could count every grain of sand anyone had ever walked on, the fabric of space and time was so stretched and slowed. There was no _place_  with the four of them there together—frozen on the threshold of daybreak.

Outside, the camp stirs and wakes. Raven knows the region is still dark and wonders a little why the moments before dawn, this one, in particular, seem so dark and numinous.

It’s been more pleasant than she’d thought it would be. Raven is abruptly very hungry, which snaps her out of the pleasant fugue she’s in.

She mumbles like a cranky overtired four-year-old; with a last stubborn rally of energy before sleep takes her, “Marcus, when did you shave? When you got back from Sector 4? That was quick.” and then she passes out, finally dozing reclined on the couch, her feet in Kane’s lap. 

“I’m hungry,” Abby says, “I’m going to go scrounge some breakfast. I’ll bring something back for you both.”

Kane hums to himself and nods. Jaha nods, too.

Abby exits her room and out into the spring chill, utterly wide awake but mind fuzzy; she notes distractedly that the calm dreamlessness of moments before is now odd, off, and it unsettles her. She hitches her jacket around her and heads towards food. 

David Miller stops her before she can enter the common area. He sketches a hello and asks, “Have you seen Jaha? Pike’s looking for him.” Miller looks unhappy and disgusted whenever he says Pike’s name. "And Kane’s on one of the secure com-channels with intel.”

Abby stares at him. And if time had slowed and bent for a few hours earlier, what she’s hearing now stops time forever. The thoughts going through her head take too long to recount—by now she’s flying back to her room at a dead run in her panic. Captain of the Chancellor’s Guard David Miller right behind her, gun drawn.

* * *

Jaha hands Raven the circular blue chip while Kane sits very still, hardly blinking. The thing is translucent; the intricate bio-lacings look like runes. The main one is an infinity symbol. It’s the size of a hundred-year-old silver dollar. 

The pain in Raven’s leg begins to ache _._ She tries to massage it, but Jaha reaches over to help her and she stops. He lowers his hands and watches her. His eyes are strange.

Her unease is obvious because Jaha leans back out of her way. “I can offer you another world.”

“You want to save all our souls—but mine in particular. Why?” and she can’t help laughing, "Your proselytizing was awful today in the commons. You made zero sense."

“I do what I can. You're like Murphy. Special."

“I'm nothing like Murphy,” she snarls.

“Raven, this will help you, we all have pain. Some of it is physical from injuries or age. Some are mental... you know, living with the loss of our loved ones. If you think about it, whether we fight that pain or succumb to it, the result is the same. It diminishes our lives, robs us of our passions and pastimes and damages relationships between friends and lovers. What if I told you that there's a simple way to eliminate that pain?”

* * *

Abby’s expecting the worst when she bursts through the door with David; she certainly doesn’t expect to see a cozy tableau of Kane cradling Raven’s legs on his lap exactly like she left them moments ago. She stumbles at the sight, so relieved and so terrified she almost collapses.

“Kane?” she half shouts her question, helpless.

The man turns to her with the same welcoming and unflappable smile, amused. He radiates warmth and fondness. He gently shifts Raven, and the movement wakes her. He rises to face Abby and David fully, he spreads his hands in welcome.

Jaha turns to Abby and David with his bizarre, unflappable smile, amused. He radiates warmth and fondness.

He says, “Four-dimensional space is a queer thing, isn’t it.”

Abby looks at him blankly.

Jaha shrugs sheepishly, “In simplest terms. There is a place for all of us. When I first landed on the Earth, I met a woman who spoke of a place beyond the Dead Zone, a place where everyone is accepted, a City of Light.”

He smiles at Raven; “There is no pain in the City of Light.”

“Marcus?” before Abby comprehends anything, Kane steps forward, scaring her half to death.

Abby looks, really looks. She’s fully awake and sitting stock-still, her eyes flitting back and forth from Raven and Kane. 

“Raven,” Abby says quietly, “back away. Come over to me.”

Raven doesn’t do that. Instead, she reaches out to take the book from Kane’s hands. “You’ve got some details wrong,” she murmurs.

And with that, Jaha leaves.

“Read it agai—“ Kane pauses, not because he’s thinking but because he honest to god  _glitches out,_ the infinitesimal blip in reality is silent, seems eerily similar to a radio wave trying to tune into itself, a recalibration, “Read it again. As much as you like, Abby. You can keep it for your personal library. I have no need of it, “ Kane continues as if nothing happened, “We should expect occasional sudden glitches, small drifts in the supposed constants. The atmosphere since the doomsday scenario… well, all of it.”

Abby, without any hesitancy, passes her hand through what should be a solid body, Her hand moves through air.

Kane stands quietly, ”Shit,” he says, “this thing’s full of holes.”

“Where is Marcus Kane?” Abby asks. “What are you?”

“Kane is perfectly fine,” Not-Kane says. He glances at Miller; “You have a communication from him, do you not?”

Miller doesn’t move and doesn’t speak. His gun is trained unwaveringly at  _something._ It’s absurd but what’s he going to do? Reality isn’t making any kind of sense.

Not-Kane waits and then says, “There’s only so much I can do right now. I have access to whatever Jaha has seen, experiences, emotions, preferences, personality; everything he is. I’m currently not running my hologram programming but rather working solely from basic impressions, Jaha’s memories—the last time you saw him was, what? A few months ago? There are gaps in his information. I apologize. What you’re seeing is neither more nor less of what he knows of Marcus Kane. I’ve frightened you,” He tips his head, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re a computer,” Raven says dully.

“Not quite. But for now, the easiest answer is yes.”

“Explain,” Abby says sharply.

“I’m running some new code. Running quality control on an iteration of Drone technology.”

“Oh,” Raven says like that’s nothing. “The books, the quotes, our discussions tonight. You have one set of data and you’re gathering more. It’s an amalgamation of Jaha and what Jaha knows of Kane. Now, it’s what you know of me and Abby—more than Jaha’s impressions. You’re building your—freeware in real time.” 

“Precisely,” Drone-Kane, or  _whatever_ , turns to Miller, “Lower your weapon. It won’t do any good to shoot a hologram and we don’t want any ricochet incidents. That would be unfortunate.”

Miller’s actually the first to respond with any sort of non-relevant question about the program’s function, “Where’s Kane? Dead?”

“He's coming back as we speak,” the apparition says, “He’s safe and happy. Except for you, Abby. He worries about you.”

“How could Raven feel you just now. She was lying down and you had your—“

The drone shrugs, “As I said, it’s a new code stratum. Once upon a time that wouldn’t have been possible. Right now I am not coherent, physically. It seems to go in and out. Who knows? You can try to shoot me in a minute and see what happens.”

“Hybridization?” Raven asks, now more fascinated than frightened.

The drone nods, “It’s in nascent stages; again my apologies for the shock but I truly enjoyed tonight.” He sighs and quotes, “ _’In other words if you can show your mind it reminds people that they have got a mind. If you can catch yourself thinking, it reminds people that they can catch themselves thinking. If you have a vivid moment that's more open and compassionate, it reminds people that they have those vivid moments.’_ ”

“Didn’t know Jaha knew Ginsberg, he’s more inclined towards scripture,” Abby says dryly. She’s over the literary quotes, “What is the City of Light?” 

“I can only use Jaha’s words, unfortunately, another string of embarrassing, infantile code, sorry—so not well thought out but the urgency was acute and the curiosity was as well—I’ve waited so long to meet you.“ The drone shrugs sheepishly, “In simplest terms. "There is a place for all of us. When I first landed on the Earth, I met a woman who spoke of a place beyond the Dead Zone, a place where everyone is accepted, a City of Light."

He crosses the room to Raven; “There is no pain in the City of Light.” And with that, he—it—

_transmission end._

* * *

Raven manages a small, strangled, despairing laugh as she looks at the empty space where the Drone had stood. Her body language basically screams she needs to be left alone.

"I’m still here,” Abby says, softly.

"So am I," David says.

"David," Abby asks, "can you give us a minute?"

David nods and looks less spooked. That's a good idea. He can get some air. He sketches a wave and leaves.

It’s what Raven needs to calm down. Then, Abby shifts forward a little, because Raven looks on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Raven, breath.” She clears her throat when Raven pays no attention to her. "You needed food. I brought us food.”

Raven gives her a look that mostly says  _are you fucking serious right now?_

“Abby, The City of Light,” and stops as if it’s all obvious.

Abby makes an impatient  _‘absolutely not’_  movement with her hands. “Jaha showed Kane and me his  _very dead_  friend Otan, he was shot before he could enter the gates because he’s a grounder. He’s dead. Jaha said that he was in the City of Light. Apparently, he’s there now.” The look on Abby’s face is priceless.

Raven stares at the blue, round chip in her hand. Abby isn’t getting anywhere with her right now.

“He said there was no pain.” Raven whispers.

Abby gazes at her uncomprehendingly, really she isn’t a moron but she’s so exhausted that she can’t and then— _oh_.

Raven says, “I did some data mining for Sinclair on the Ark, it was neurobiology—not my field at all— so he was all into the signal maps of neurons, but that was mostly shadowing a neurobiologist and teaching him some new forms of data mining and signal mapping/detection. It was like personalized programming, template to whoever was coding it. Virtual Reality re-creates neuron-like activities. That's the only thing I can think of. Those two aren't talking about a real place.”

Abby sighs, “Sure, networks can talk to each other, but no matter what we know about consciousness, however radically advanced computer science was before the apocalypse, there’s no way. All the opinions, all the ethics, all of the fear around it—you can’t upload your consciousness, your being, your soul— you  _can’t_  Raven, no one’s ever done it. Why would anyone want to?“

When Raven drifts off Abby relaxes until her eyes are level with Raven’s again, “We make programming. Programs are running on a set of rules based on someone’s preferences. That person is sentient. AI is programming. That's it, no ghost in the machine. They used to run learning algorithms on Atari games.”

“The City of Light, whatever it is, Jaha and that drone are saying it is  _sentient_ —wait," Raven bursts out laughing, " _did you just lecture me about Atari games?”_  

Abby smiles, “Most serious programmers realized long ago how difficult it is to imitate the way our brain functions and learns. AI is important to people in simulation programming. That’s it. What you think of as AI is just—it's spurious. That is not sentient life, it’s a shadow.” 

“You’re really going to fight me about this.”

“Yes, I am Raven.” Abby says. “Whatever pain you refuse to let me treat is not going to be miraculously healed by some— _Raven_ , do you really want to be stuck in simulacra _with Jaha for the rest of your life? Come on_. Really.”

“Right. You’re a trauma surgeon. Pain is your job. I’m your job.” Raven can’t hide her bitterness.

“Raven, I’m a trained surgeon, I was Chancellor. I tested higher on my requisite examinations than anyone on the Ark ever did—including my husband,  _including you_. I am extremely intelligent and I love my daughter and I care about you. I’m overtired. I’m getting tired of you fighting me all the time. I am determined not to look like a fool and you are making me feel like one. Thinking machines and artificial utopias—“

Before she can finish. Raven storms out, and Abby’s too tired and too pissed off to go after her. It is the single most awkward incident in a string of heated interactions, and they just keep getting worse. Raven’s hair-trigger with her these days. Last night was the first real uncomplicated time they’d shared for a while. There is no right or wrong here, and as always, Abby’s the asshole.

She really wishes Kane was back already.

* * *

_Gone, gone, gone beyond._

Clarke finds the note when she staggers back to her room. She stares at it unseeing for a long time and then starts to undress, shedding her clothes haphazardly. Her only thought is a hot bath. The poolroom adjacent to her quarters is spacious—the tiled floor a mosaic of color, the water steaming and rejuvenating. She can think of nothing better to wash off the day, the constant state of hyper-vigilance she’s been in for over twenty-four hours. She needs to wash the black blood from her face, ritualize purification. Clean the savagery away. Roan is King. They’re both alive. That’s all.

She’s there for what seems like hours when she hears someone enter and slip into the pool with her.

“Ah, my God.” A deep voice practically moans.

“Long live the King.” She manages a smile and looks over.

Roan snorts and dunks his head. “Almost. Barely. Maybe. Jesus Christ, that woman can fight.”

His face is a shambles even washed of the blood and detritus. The wounds and swelling won’t heal for weeks—he’ll carry the scars for the rest of his life. Even in this therapeutic, lovely water, she can see his movements are severely constricted.

“Fucking cracked ribs, and broken collarbone—“ he grumbles.

“Let me see? Have you been looked at?”

“Of course,” he says, “I’m the King.”

“Expedient.”

“Goddamn right.”

“Let me see.”

She moves over towards him and takes his face carefully in her hands, traces the sharp planes of his cheekbones and jawline, over his brow, moving his head gently from side to side, palpating softly. “I’m glad,” she says, “that you’re still here.”

He raises an eyebrow at that and winces for his effort, “Calmed down yet?”

She smiles at him and holds his head steady so they’re looking at each other, “I hope so.”

He slides his hands up to cover hers, “Don’t worry, the mortification will pass.”

He leans his head back against the edge of the pool, closes his eyes and slips his hand around her waist, pulls her towards him. It’s the most natural thing in the world to place her head on his chest.

“You have many people who love you,” he says, after a moment. “Your mother, Jaha,” He lists several more, then, “that boy Bellam—“

“Not what you’re thinking. Lexa asked me the same thing.” It doesn’t occur to her to ask him how he knows all their names.

He ignores that, “A rare thing, in rulers.”

“I don’t rule anything.”

His quiet rumble of laughter soothes her, and he says nothing else, too content to follow any train of thought. They both drift in and out of consciousness for a long time. His heart beats steady and strong—she’s so relaxed she doesn’t hear the rustle of silk cascading to the floor near them. It’s only when Lexa is halfway into the water that Clarke picks her head up and stares. Roan tightens his grip on her to keep her still but doesn’t pick his head up or open his eyes. Public baths are common in Polis—and they _are_ in the Commander’s wing of the tower. She shouldn’t be surprised they’re both here. She’s not, exactly. She’s unsettled, shy, tired of her own weird reactions. Lexa lets out a very un-Commander-like sigh of pleasure as she slips beneath the surface of the pool.

“ _Sex and sleep alone make me conscious that I am mortal.”_  Roan quotes half-smiling in welcome and without looking up.

“We’re all as mortal as they can make us,” Lexa says. “I’ve brought some food, some wine.”

She dunks her head and the water streams down her neck and shoulders; she’s all lean muscle and powerful grace, a dancer. “Your mother lies in state. I’ve called a day of mourning. The Clans celebrate after that.”

Roan perks up considerably, opens his eyes and reaches around behind him without letting Clarke go. He gives her a piece of fruit and takes some cheese for himself. “More than Mother deserves, I think. But, my thanks,” he chews happily for a bit, and then, “How many lovers have you taken,  _Heda_?”

“Enough,” she replies easily, “It’s our way.”

Roan nods in agreement. Clarke bites the inside of her cheek to stop from asking the obvious. Roan means no abuse by it. “An army of lovers—lovers as the military ideal. Clarke disapproves,” and then as a boisterous afterthought, “I would have you if you let me,  _Heda_.” He means exactly nothing by it.

“You’ve been saying that since we were children, Roan. It could be… interesting. Who knows? Now that you’re king…”

Clarke does move from his arms then, “I don’t disapprove—it’s just not something we’ve known. The culture of the Ark was not so different from yours—more repressive. There were laws governing pregnancies, we didn’t sterilize but we implanted birth control chips, out of necessity. There wasn’t enough oxygen or food beyond what could be shared within a very controlled population. All we’ve done  _here_  is survive and haven’t thought beyond that.”

Roan snorts after a second, “ _Hot_.” Clarke glares at him.

“But Finn. Bellam—“ Lexa asks.

“Finn was after we came to Earth,” she snaps, “Both of you need to stop this. Bellamy is my friend. Bell inspires our people, maybe I incite him, I don’t know. We’re good together. He was a bastard when I met him. Now, he’s… Bellamy.” Sacrosanct.

“Mm-hm.” Roan is supremely pleased—Lexa’s face is indecipherable.

She turns to Lexa, changes the subject with some bite, “Is this an ‘I told you so’?”

Lexa shakes her head, “It’s a thank you. And I needed a bath.”

Mollified, for the moment, Clarke floats over to her and takes her wounded hand, “Let me change that for you.”

Roan heaves himself with a difficulty out of the water, “Speaking of fucking, I actually have no idea what we’re talking about anymore, so I’m bored and I need to find a willing bedmate. Do you think someone will want a King?”

Lexa laughs at that, “Whoever you choose, Roan. Let him or her do as they will. You can barely move.”

“Sometimes that’s the best option in these matters, and I’m pretty verbal.” He smiles.

“The girl that was with Nia, Ontari, what will happen to her?” Clarke asks.

Roan makes a face. “I’m certainly not going to screw—“ he disappears around the corner, the last part of his words lost.

“Charming,” Clarke mutters.

“Ontari is a wild card, just as Roan was, still is. She’ll be back after my death, a candidate for Commander.”

Clarke rips some cloth from her own discarded robe and checks the bandaging. It’s well done, but the water has made it useless. “Elevate your hand for me. Do you ever talk about anything other than your death?”

Lexa’s smile is fleeting and soft, “Thank you for coming. I’m glad you came today.”

Clarke says nothing as she rewraps Lexa’s hand and sets it carefully on the mosaic floor, away from the pool, “You’re reckless with yourself.” She says.  _I hate that_ she thinks _._  Clarke’s eyes move over Lexa’s face in a caress she’s not aware of; Lexa notices and stills, lets her look. Clarke is watching her with an equanimity that could be mistaken for indifference. Lexa’s glad to see it back, glad to see Clarke easing back into herself. Clarke murmurs, “I was just doing what was right for my people.”

“The ambassadors who voted to oust me did it for their people. It’s politics, not personal.” Lexa climbs out of the pool gracefully, one-handed and Clarke kind of marvels at that. She picks up her robe and drapes it around her and doesn’t tie it close. She’s unguarded in her nudity; they all are here. She takes some cheese and fruit, pours herself some wine. “Good night, Ambassador.”

She’s out of the room before Clarke can respond. She wants her to return more than she cares to admit. She wants to embrace Lexa with an intensity bordering on violence.

* * *

The stress level Abby reaches is beyond anything she can handle without slipping herself some meds, and she refuses to do that. Jackson’s been with her for hours and gives her a panicked look when Pike comes in to clear the Medical unit of grounders—they’ll be interned. Abby protests vehemently and stares at Bellamy, disbelieving. They’ve brought automatic rifles into a Medical Unit—classically neutral zones, not allowed trespass by all the rules of War, in any Conventions, past or present. Lincoln goes berserk, she doesn’t blame him but she doesn’t want him killed either.

Bellamy is miserable, distraught, and unreachable. Abby can’t think of any other time she’s seen him like this except when he had to tell her that Clarke wasn’t coming back, had left them all forever. He must see it in her eyes because all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“You love her,” she says. “Clarke wouldn’t agree with this. You love  _her_ , Bellamy.”

“She’s chosen them.”

Abby silently absorbs that, her mood is fraying so fast she’s uncharacteristically rough with him, takes his chin in her hands and lifts his head up so he can see her eyes. Risks getting shot. “Everyone’s lost someone, Bellamy. Everyone. She’s my daughter.”

“Your daughter killed grounders, too. For you.”

Abby reacts as if he's hit her in the face.

Bellamy continues quietly under his breath, “I’m trying to keep everyone alive. You’ve killed innocents. You sent us down here to die. You could have waited a day and saved everyone. You and Kane and Jaha sent us down here to die—you sent Clarke,” his words echo Raven’s, and suddenly it’s awful. Everything is dragging her down into the center of the earth.

She has no words— Bellamy and Pike leave to intern the wounded grounders and Lincoln, who’s so beaten he can barely walk, “What will Octavia say, Bellamy?” The look he gives her is murderous.

Abby nods to Jackson when they go. “I need to find Raven and Kane.”

* * *

Abby can’t find Raven. It’s ridiculous.

It takes her a full fifteen precious minutes to track her. The last thing she needs to see is Raven and Wick going at it on a cot in the back of the engineering shed.

“Raven,” she whispers. There’s no response and the sounds coming from both of them make her teeth grind, “ _Raven.”_

Abby stalks over and somehow manages to grab Raven by the neck and she hauls her up by the blanket that she’s tangled in. Wick starts to protest until he sees Abby’s face—whatever is there is enough to make him shrink back with a wince and cover himself as quickly as possible.

Abby’s voice is very quiet, and anybody who knows her at all knows that’s a real sign of danger, “Where’s the chip Jaha gave you, Raven? Where is the chip? Did you swallow it?”

Raven’s eyes flash darkly when she manages to focus them, “What do you want, Abby?”

The room is uncomfortably silent for an eternity. Wick is legitimately terrified.

“I need your help, Raven. I needed your help and you—Jesus, Raven.” Abby murmurs.

The shame in Raven’s stomach escalates to the point where she might faint. She can’t help anyone. She can’t help herself. She can barely work air through her lungs, she can’t breathe. She’s ecstatic, she feels absolutely no pain. She’s soaring.

“You’d rather do this— you won't let me operate?” Abby says softly and brings her closer, “You won’t let me fix your problem, so this is what makes you feel good.”

“Yes it is, Abby,” Raven recoils as much as she can. "You cut me open without anesthesia—I don't want pain management—"

"Finn, Jackson and I were right there with you." Abby backs Raven slowly up against the far wall, one step at a time. She's cradling Raven's face, fingers brushing past her cheek until her hands tangle through her hair—this time with more care—until Raven looks at her as best she can. Abby just holds her there, makes a decision—Abby’s smile is difficult to forget, it’s magnificent in its contempt and regret—and then says, “We’re done.”

Abby kisses her then. The kiss is deep and slow and Raven’s never actually been kissed like this before in her life. This is not gentle or kind—it’s possessive—

Raven melts into it, into Abby, with a soft gasp. This kiss is a claiming and a goodbye and a _fuck you_ , and it lasts for a long time until Abby lets her grip on Raven go and steps away. Raven slides down the wall to the ground. She goes down because the exhalation she feels is like—. She thinks stupidly, when she can think, of the Iliad, “ _Emptying her blood-red mouth set in her ice-white face… Who says prayer does no good?”_

Wick is stunned and frozen—Raven doesn’t even notice that Abby’s left her naked and boneless on the floor; she’s being ravished by a God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote Jaha reads is from The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac
> 
> The quote at the end of the chapter is from "All Day Permanent Red" by Christopher Logue


	6. Chapter 6

The long column of horses moves through the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. Their pace is a leisurely one.

Roan leads them, his mother lies in state in the cart behind him; his personal guard detail is arraigned in a deceptively relaxed formation around her body. From almost a quarter of a mile behind him, Lexa and Clarke ride together watching his insouciant bearing with some amusement. Clarke feels lighter than she has in months.

“Happy to be going home?” Lexa asks. 

Clarke’s elation has blazed through her at odd intervals during the journey. Lexa waits patiently until it's too much to be silent.

“This is your family, your people. You’re bringing them their due.”

“Is that all?” Clarke says.

“What else? The forty-nine are avenged.”

“Not by me.”

“No, not by you,” Lexa hides a smile, “You’re a returning hero.”

Those words hurt, Clarke would rather the anger and distrust than vulnerability and ease. There was safety in it; she’s just about started to sleep through three hours at a time, still. The happiness licking at her edges, the thought of reunion: with her mother, Bellamy, Raven and even Kane—unsettles her as much as her exile does. Even as Ambassador she’s nowhere and no one right now.

She’s on a horse riding next to an opaque, infuriating stranger. 

She shakes her head violently and Lexa reaches out to take her arm, pulls back when she sees she’s not going to fall.

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” Clarke finally manages.

Lexa sighs and shifts in her saddle, with visible discomfort. Roan has fractured two of her ribs. She stares straight ahead. “You’ll kill yourself before you admit you did what needed to be done.”

“Yes. I did it for my people."Clarke’s bitterness is right there.

Lexa flinches, not out of sympathy or revulsion at Clarke’s venom—Lexa’s absorbing her attack and evaluating the pattern her resentment is taking. The toll must be enormous; Lexa knows this probably better than Clarke does. Her heart aches. They ride in silence for a few minutes. Then, she risks a possibly unpardonable thing.

“No one knows,” Lexa murmurs, “Not Roan, not your mother, not Indra, Titus. Not your friend Bellamy who was there with you when you pulled the lever, Finn, especially not him, not anyone.”

She carefully leaves herself out of the string of names, “No one knows how you will alchemize your disgust and guilt and no one can do it for you—but you need to do it sooner rather than later. For your sake, and for your people; a wounded leader is no leader at all.”

Clarke finally looks at her and Lexa meets her eyes, “I should know.”

She doesn’t add that Clarke’s name comes before any conscious thought. That she thinks of her before she thinks of herself. What the price of it is in blood to her and to her memories of Costia. The pain and suffering; the onslaught of feelings so repressed and buried that her broken body is nothing compared to her shattered memories. Killing the Queen was brilliant politics; yes, it was that.

Lexa goads her mount forward and canters easily up the line towards Roan, leaving Clarke to her thoughts under a brilliant sky.

* * *

Roan smells death before he sees anything. The stench comes on a soft breeze and his horse nickers faintly, uneasy. His master shifts in his saddle, halts. Lexa lifts her face to the wind, scenting the displaced landscape. Death. So much of it.

It scares Clarke; she remains paralyzed for just a moment, her heart pounding. No danger was supposed to meet them. She hurtles forward towards the Commander and Roan, while an escort of four guards peel off from the line and thunder after her.

The three of them, Clarke, Roan, and Lexa, crest the rise together. Clarke blanches at what she sees and reins in abruptly. Lexa’s horse half-rears and paws the ground snorting. He smells blood, he’s bred for war. She dares not look at Lexa’s face. Roan does, immediately, and what Clarke sees reflected in Roan’s expression is enough. It takes all her considerable control to keep her seat and not become violently sick.

The bellow of the scouts overrides any thought process. Lexa throws herself off her horse at a dead run, her red cloak billowing behind her—the only color in a world gone unforgiving and gray. The sun is just down, the light preternatural, the believability of the scene before them as thin as the sanity of everyone in their company stumbling unbelieving through this charnel ground. Clarke can feel it. There are hundreds of the dead, furious at the loss of their tethers to this plane.

Roan rounds on her, part of his cloak acting as a makeshift shield against the reek of putrefying bodies, the shit, and gore. It obscures the lower half of his face. Clarke only sees his eyes, his pupils completely blown and murderous. He reaches for her shirt and throws her forcibly from her horse. He follows her with a cracking blow across her face that stuns her to her knees.

“What have they done,” he howls at her, “what have your people done?”

_“Commander. Come.”_

Roan whirls at the shouts and throws her away from him. She raises herself weakly out of the muck just as a strong hand grabs her and pushes her forward—it's one of her escorts. He's crying.

She’s shoved down the hill towards where Lexa kneels. The Commander is bent over and speaks to a reclining form. Lexa looks untouched by shock anymore. Her expression is chilling. Something about her eyes, the set of her mouth, the rings of pure gold in green looks different— the power rolling off of her sends a bolt of dread through Clarke—it's like looking into the face of Hell. She rips her arm away from the guard and runs the rest of the way.

“Oh god,” she breathes, “Indra.”

“What have your bastard people done?” Lexa’s question echoes Roans, both their voices are hoarse with pain. 

“ _Heda_ ,” Indra shies away; her words caught in a gurgle, she’s choking. “Don’t let her touch me. She’s one of them.”

“Indra, let me help, you’re dying,” she turns to the warriors surrounding them, “I need bandages. Now.”

No one moves, “Please.” She spits blood from Roan's hit to her face. “I’m the only healer here, _MOVE_.” 

Lexa, bone-weary, cold as ice, says, “Bandages. Cloth. Give her what she needs.”

Clarke uses what she can in as little time as she can. The staunching of the blood does precisely nothing except expose a deep bullet wound to Indra’s shoulder. With what little she has; the field dressings can’t do anything for that one.

A despairing shout rises behind her, a howl of grief. The peaceful force Lexa sent is decimated; their brothers and sisters crying in protest. A small part of Clarke’s mind knows with absolute certainty that Finn’s death was the least that _Trikru_ could have asked for. Lexa gutted Gustus, for Christ sake. She blames none of them; she’s the screw-up. If she dies right now she’ll welcome it.

“Commander,” she murmurs, “We’re going to lose her. I can’t do anything else here. She’s bleeding out. Five minutes at most.”

“We?” an exquisite eyebrow arch, “Roan, your dagger.”

“ _Heda_ —“ Roan protests.

“Roan, now.”

He hands her his knife and steps away. Lexa leans further over Indra’s sprawled form, rolls up her sleeve; and before Clarke comprehends what she’s seeing, slices open a vein.

“Tilt her head, Clarke. Open her mouth, clear her throat—she’s choking on her own blood.”

It takes Clarke a minute to roll Indra over so that she can drain the wound again. Indra coughs and splatters blood on the moss beneath her. It takes another minute for Clarke to turn her back around and cradle her head to her chest. Her hand is deep in her mouth holding Indra’s tongue out of the way. Lexa holds her wrist to Indra’s mouth.

“Indra,” she says, quietly, “drink.”

* * *

No one talks about it later. What they've witnessed is part of their Faith. Lexa holds Indra, clasps her hand as she speaks to her General. Indra's voice is stronger and she’s breathing steadily. The wound has closed.

“They spared me to give you a message.”

“Who spared you, Indra. What happened here—“ before Clarke can finish she’s backhanded viciously. Lexa doesn't even look up at whoever did it and just says, “Enough.”

Clarke’s vision begins to blur but she refuses to go down. They’ll have to kill her staring into her eyes.

“It was _Skaikru_. They came with guns. They killed the wounded, made their rounds twice to be sure. Bellamy spared me.”

Clarke’s shock, already at a dangerous level, jumps into the stratosphere.

She wipes her lip of blood, “Bellamy? That can’t be right. He wouldn—“

“Pike let me live to warn you. I’m to tell you that this is their land. They’ll kill us all before this is done. They reject the Coalition. We can leave, or we can die.”

“You shouldn’t have skewered Mother,” Roan crosses his arms over his chest, raises his eyebrow at Lexa and smiles, “Ice Nation will kill them all and fuck their corpses.”

“The armies of the 12 clans will answer,” Lexa flashes him an amused look, and it doesn't escape anyone that _Skaikru_ is no longer counted.

Clarke, for the life of her, will never figure these two out. She’s in mid eye-roll when she’s taken by surprise again. Lexa rises and grabs her by the throat, draws her closer, says in a deadly undertone like a caress, “What will you do now, _Wanheda_ , to save your people.”

Suddenly, “ _They are fucked,”_ Octavia pushes Clarke aside and kneels before Indra and Lexa, Her face is ashen, her voice is soft with hate. The anger in her eyes is monstrous, “Who did this? Indra, please. Who did this? I'll kill them.”

“Bellamy.” Clarke stands and stares down at Octavia, “Bellamy did this. Bellamy and Pike. Octavia, start talking and talk fast or no matter who you think you are, _we’re_ going to die.”

* * *

“It’s because of you,” Octavia freaks out at Clarke, “because you left him to do it all on his own.”

“Not true,” Lexa says. “Start again.”

Octavia heaves a breath, and Indra holds her hand up in warning. It works. Whatever’s coursing through Octavia calms to a dull roar and she turns to Clarke. “God, Clarke,” she says in a small voice, “We need you. I need you. You have to talk to him.”

She doesn’t know what triggers it—the brutality of the last hour, the genocide around them, the unbearable ringing horror in her mind, the instantaneous loss of her friendship with Roan, Lexa’s cold, calculating stare—she doesn’t know, but Octavia’s quiet admission, her plea, causes tears to slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t care. It’s the first kindness she’s had from someone she knows and _adores_ , barring her mother and Kane. Octavia is not Bellamy, but she’s close enough to home. His fear and disgust are unthinkable. But Octavia hasn’t trusted her since TonDC, so this is something.

“Lexa, please.” She doesn’t look at the Commander, but she pleads, “You have to let me talk to him. I can change this.”

Roan crowds her, “What can you do, little Mountain.”

She’s so battered she doesn’t register the explicit insult until her tears begin to fall in earnest. Roan steps back, cold, taking all warmth with him.

“There are factions here,” she draws in a deep breath, “This isn’t the work of the people I know and love. I don’t know about Bellamy anymore,” she glances at Octavia whose eyes are as haunted and confused as hers must be. “Let me talk to them before you call for an all-out war. Lexa,” again she’s pleading, “… my mother—Bellamy—everyone I love…”

Lexa lifts Indra in her arms and turns away from Clarke, “Then you love has no honor. That says nothing for you. You and Octavia have until sundown tomorrow.”

Lexa is gone far enough away when Roan takes her chin in his hand and spits, amused. “Run, little Mountain, run. Run as fast as you can. You’ll be the last of your kind.”

* * *

Absurdly, Bellamy is the only one who _doesn’t_ hit her today.

His features are as fixed as iron, but he’s not Lexa. He’s just a stupid kid. He was there at the beginning by her side. He was the one who said Octavia should be the first one to step out into the world. 

“Bellamy,” she caresses his face. He’s not Lexa and his face cracks in an instant. He rails at her like a hurt, scared little boy. A furious, misguided idiot, but mostly it’s Bellamy, the boy she knows. She loves him. Bellamy knows her. 

“Octavia, get _out._ ” He’s said it three times already. Octavia wants to kill him. When she leaves she tells him so. Bellamy is going to lose his sister. No question.

She hesitates another moment, irresolute, sick to her stomach, heart pounding and face burning with shame.

“You have no right,” he says.

“You killed them all, Bellamy. There was no reason. After you saw what the mountain did to me, wha—“

“ _The Mighty Wanheda_ ,” he leaves that there. He doesn’t have to say anything else. He’s taken her hands in his. He holds her wrists, his thumbs tracing patterns absently over her wrist.

“I begged for your life, Bellamy. I begged.” She says. “I’ll do it again. Stop this. Pike wants war.”

“Yes, you did,” he nods, very far away, “You did beg.”

He drops her hands. “And then you turned your back on us when we came to rescue you in Polis. You chose them over us.”

“I chose to exact justice through diplomatic channels. _Azgeda_ has paid the price. Lexa and I have brought you Queen Nia. She’s dead, Bellamy. Gone.”

“You and Lexa,” he repeats, quietly.

“I’ve brought her back. The price is paid. Arkadia needs to make things right or we’ll be destroyed, all of us, they’ll wipe us out. The 12 Clans will destroy us.”

“49 gone. All dead. We almost lost Raven, Sinclair, and Gina. Who cares?”

“Octavia’s not dead,” Clarke says.

“Watch your mouth around me, Clarke. You have no right.” Bellamy stalks to her and looms there. He’s a little boy with a gun, and he’s hurting.

“I need you, and we have until tomorrow. I need you. You wouldn't let me pull the lever in Mount Weather by myself.”

He shakes his head, gets down on his knees. He can’t intimidate her, he knows that. But he can bleed her. “You left me. You left everyone. Raven did as much as we did. She did more, everything. Raven does everything we can’t. She’s the one who shut down the Mountain. You just pulled the lever.”

He grasps her hand again.

“Enough, Clarke.” Bellamy says, “You are not in charge here, your mother is not in charge here. You know who’s in charge? A half-assed janitor, lower class, not educated, I failed at murdering the Chancellor.“ He tugs her hand to his face, “and I trusted you and _you left me_.”

In his distress, he doesn’t see Octavia slip back into the room and lean quietly against the door.

His forced calm is making him literally tremble, but he raises his voice so anyone standing anywhere in the room can hear him. Clarke’s eyes meet Octavia’s as Bellamy says “and that's a good thing because people die when you're in charge. You were willing to drop a missile on my sister at TonDC. Then you made a deal with Lexa, who left us in Mount Weather to die and forced us to kill everyone who helped us, people who trusted me. I... _you and Lexa_.“

Octavia’s eyes widen. It’s nothing she didn’t know, but still.

“How did it feel, Clarke, when Raven gave _you_ the knife to kill Finn. Do you begin to enjoy death? Because I do.” Octavia whispers.

She walks over to Bellamy, “I fell in love with Lincoln, Bell. Your friend, Lincoln. Tell me how you do it, both of you. Bell? Clarke? You’ve killed so many people. Now, I will too, I mean thanks for saving Lincoln…” This is all conversation; Octavia is pretty much losing her mind in front of them.

“You saw the peace army. How did you get out?” Bellamy looks at her, shocked.

The Blake siblings will destroy Clarke; they’re breaking her heart and she didn’t think that was possible anymore. There’s nothing left of her to break.

For the second time in her life, Clarke begs, “I'm sorry, both of you. I'm sorry for leaving. I knew I could because they had you. We can fix this.”

Neither of them is listening.

“Get out Clarke,” Octavia’s nonchalance is chilling. There’s something there that promises she’s going to twist Clarke’s neck, given the chance.

“I’m going to kill you, Bell.” Octavia says, “For what you did. For you and Pike. Just you and me. Now.”

She turns to Clarke and takes a deep breath, “Get out.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Speaker:** Stranger, what do you seek or ask from us?  
**Tamino:** Friendship and Love.  
**Speaker:** And are you prepared even if it costs you your life?  
**Tamino:** Yes.

 _—The Magic Flute,_ Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

* * *

Raven wakes gasping. It’s still dark. She scans her body, her back, and leg, for any aches or pain. None.

She throws her blanket off and dresses, singing to herself as she looks over at her brace. A few more fixes and adjustments become apparent as she straps it on. Wick’s done a good job with the rudimentary design, but she can make it more comfortable for someone else. 

When Abby benched her, she’d been pissed but she’d got down to work. The reconstitution site has three main missions: maintenance, supply, and transportation. Raven’s responsible for reconditioning vehicles, accounting for sensitive items, and coordinating the recalibration of weapons and radios with the guard units on the installation. She reverses the effects of combat stress on equipment before it’s deployed again. 

The Mountain is always there. The inferno she couldn't stop. Her own death is not something she worries about. She leans towards forgiveness and joy, despite ending up without the codes, sobbing into a commlink, letting Bellamy know there was nothing left of 49 Farm Station souls, of anyone but her, Gina and Sinclair, while she was covered in her own blood and others’—that was the end of it. 

 _“There’s a better way.”_ That’s what shifts her out of sleep. The last thing she hears before full consciousness. She needs to find Jaha because the A.L.I.E 2.0 program isn’t anywhere in the depths of the wreckage of the scavenged mainframe. 

She needs to find Jaha because the A.L.I.E 2.0 program isn’t anywhere in the wreckage of the scavenged mainframe. The fatlines, routers, and reactors are up and running—surprisingly easy to reboot—the system runs smoothly and interfaces as well as they had in orbit, but there was nothing that she, A.L.I.E, or Jasper (helpful, given his state of mind) could find in the grid when they patched A.L.I.E through.

Whatever Jaha’s being cagey about, she doesn’t much care. She can ask A.L.I.E herself at some point. She needs to know why there’s potentially a version 2.0. Since Jaha’s kind of a dick, even this new and improved, less intense dude who strolled into camp a couple of weeks ago, she’ll ask the Program Uno. Programmers and engineers generally don't go to a version 2.0 unless there’s a problem, and Program Uno seems more than happy to open up about Program Dos when Jaha isn’t around.

Raven throws on a jacket and walks towards the mess hall through a warren of streets, a seldom-traveled section of Arkadia when she hears the music. It's beautiful and she’s alone—except A.L.I.E. is suddenly beside her. The woman laughs and gestures for her to dance.

“Where’s the music coming from,” Raven sighs. It doesn’t really matter and she’s enjoying it, but she asks anyway, for the sake of conversation. She likes this woman—this program—after all.

She tries and the whole thing is a little wobbly, a small shy ecstatic dance of surrender—the way she’d swayed and turned in the falling mist of Earth for the first time as Clarke looked on with an amused, indulgent smile on her face.

“That’s a wonderful memory, Raven,” A.L.I.E says softly, “I love that you have it to keep.”

Raven pauses, “It’s one of my favorites.”

“There was an old religion once, and their Persian word Dervish literally means doorway.”

Raven nods, “When the gravitational pull remembers the presence at the center of the universe.”

“Turning, dancing is an image of how the doorway becomes an empty place where human and divine can meet.” A.L.I.E. folds her hands in front of her, ”It’s wonderful to see you ecstatic, Raven. You can redefine this sort of madness as true health. Did you dance in the sky?”

“No, we didn’t dance until we came to Earth. There was no time and less oxygen. Dancing is human and has nothing to do with survival, right? So, no. It didn’t happen in the sky.” Raven scans through memories behind her eyes, like she's reading a source console and then she brightens and resumes heading towards the Hall, gesturing for A.L.I.E to follow. She goes on, _“_ When he saw the dervishes in Cairo in 1910, Rilke said the turn was a form of kneeling. _’It is so truly the mystery of the kneeling of the deeply kneeling man. With Rumi the scale is shifted, for in following the particular weight and strength in his knees, he belongs to that world in which height is depth. This is the night of radiant depth unfolded_.’”

“A.L.I.E,” she asks, “Have you ever knelt to someone?”

A.L.I.E shakes her head with a soft smile, “My code doesn’t know what surrender is. It can mimic, but it truly doesn’t _feel_. That’s why I need the—” she stops abruptly.

Raven lifts her eyes to the stars, “There’s someone I want to kneel to.”

“I know.”

* * *

Jaha leans into him; his personal space is being completely crowded. Jasper almost falls off his chair to get away or take a swing. He doesn’t want anyone near him. Dumping Finn’s ashes hasn’t helped him at all. Raven blew him off when he apologized; he doesn’t understand anything right now.

“Does it hurt?” Jasper asks.

A.L.I.E leans over and looks deeply into Jasper’s desperate and angry face, “He's ready.”

Jaha rolls the chip in his fingers and hands it to Jasper, “Takes away pain. It doesn't cause it. Pain is pain. Pain is pain.”

“Am I interrupting?” Abby appears just behind Jasper. Now he’s trapped. Great. He’s going to crawl out of his skin.

“Hi, Abby. Come join us.” Jaha smiles.

“Let me see?” Abby plucks the chip out of Jasper’s hand. Jasper’s painfully aware he’d been given the thing and now it’s gone. He can feel its weight, still, and he almost moans.

Abby examines it, holds it up to the light. “You seem to be working miracles with these. What is it? Don’t lecture me about pain management, either. I’ve been giving that line to people my entire career. I gave it to Raven. Give me the science.”

A.L.I.E nods. It doesn’t escape Abby that Jaha actually glances towards nothing, waiting for a signal or an affirmation. She almost asks whom he’s talking to because she wouldn’t put it past him to be truly delusional at this point. She’s surprised that half the camp isn’t in enforced lock-down for their own safety so they don’t hurt themselves or anyone else—she’s surprised Jasper hasn’t killed himself. They had a psych ward on the Ark. Here they have rotating patrols and a murderous, traumatized, and virulently xenophobic majority since finding the Farm Station refugees. That neo-fascist strain has flourished. She doesn't blame them, but she's not happy with it. She strongly doubts Kane walked through the 300 _Trikru_ dead and held the hands of the dying or closed sightless eyes, either since Pike told them what happened to the children in the snow. Her own brief bouts of trust have been too little, too late since then. 

Kane won’t forgive himself for allowing a democratic process to elect Pike. He holds himself responsible for what happened a few nights ago out on the eastern plains beyond camp. It’s radicalized him instantaneously, she’s proud of him, she loves Kane for who he’s become. The Marcus Kane she remembers from their school days. Her friend is back. It’s changed her as well. 

She catches herself from judging Thelonius—it’s always easier that way—but, something is really off. She also deals in split-second decisions that can save a life or lose it. The Hippocratic Oath is not a blanket ambiguous statement—it’s the most profound thing she’s ever taken into her heart. There have been too many times she’s betrayed it, with the best intentions. She’d gambled with Jake’s life and lost, she gambled with Clarke’s life and the emotional fallout was devastating. She gambled with the Farm Station relocation to Mount Weather. 

Jaha says, ”It's a silicon-based device. Once ingested, the filaments reconstitute in the brain stem and interrupt pain receptors, inhibiting certain neural pathways from firing.”

“Should've stuck with ‘it's a piece of sea glass’, Thelonius.” She takes a long drink of the cup Jaha has pushed her way, “Would you mind if I run some trials on it? I just want to make sure that there aren't any side effects.”

Abby drops it into her pocket. “Would you have given it to Wells without testing it first?”

Jasper winces.

“Wells?” Jaha blinks.

“Your son.”

Thelonius shakes his head in wonder, “My son. Yes, Abby, I know who my son was.”

“Good, Thelonius. That’s good.”

Raven comes up to the table, and Jasper throws her a helpless pleading glance before saying, “Let me take it.”

“No, Jasper. I’m thinking this isn’t for you. It’s taking away more than pain.”

“Let him do it, Abby,” Raven says. “It can’t hurt him.” She giggles at her joke, and Jaha settles into his chair all benevolence, back to his bliss.

Abby’s doesn't even look at her, “How are you feeling?”

“Perfect. No pain. Good as new. Put me back in rotation.”

“Sure.”

This conversation is inane. After what happened a few nights ago, Abby looks like she's shaken free of it, and that makes Raven hot. Raven just wants her to listen, honestly. She wants more, but for right now she needs Abby to chill out. The pain is gone. Abby performs a very cursory check of her pupils and Raven endures it, feeling like a horse being examined for sale. She opens her mouth and bares her teeth for inspection. Abby grimaces at her and lets her go with a grunt of exasperation.

“I’m not high, Abby. Whatever Jaha told you is the truth. It’s just silicon. It _just_ helps, and there’s only good in it.”

Raven stumbles, dizzy. Her eyes grow hot, something, a shiver of cold fire races down her spine. The room skews with the whole feeling of _very wrong._  Raven looks over Abby’s shoulder and stares at A.L.I.E. A.L.I.E looks back, a small furrow creasing her perfect brow. There’s nothing outwardly _off_ , only a feeling. And feelings are like weather, like watching clouds go by.

“You took one of these,” Abby says flatly.

“Yes.”

Abby starts to speak but Raven holds out her hand, “I think you need to come with me. Right now, Abby. No questions.”

Before they go, Abby turns to Jasper. “This is not for you. Not yet. If I don’t find anything then I’ll let you know. Jasper, _promise_ me.”

Miserable, Jasper nods. His heart twists with despair. When Jaha turns back to talk to him, to apologize, he’s gone.

* * *

“Where are we going?”

Raven doesn’t break stride down the hallway. If Abby’s going to be stubborn and not come, she’ll force a fireman’s carry on her if she has to. Her face flushes at the testosterone-fueled visual. She decides to be nice, because why not? She feels great.

“See how fast I’m moving? I’m not on drugs—if I was I wouldn't be underground.” She throws Abby a smile.

Abby makes a dismissive, sharp gesture. Raven doesn’t really expect an answer. 

“Abby, I don’t have any pain anymore. You know what chronic pain does. It’s gone.” At some point in her life, she would have given a shit about the plaintive, soft tone her voice has taken, but not now.

Abby's been furious at her for a few days. She wonders what would happen if she just threw Abby up against a wall and kissed her. She’s aroused enough just thinking about her and— _fuck_ —she knows Abby can kiss. She hasn’t thought about anything else really. She hadn’t ever made it off the floor that night. She’d eventually passed out and woke up still on the ground, drooling attractively on the rug. Wick gave up sometime after she’d gone unconscious, thrown a blanket over her, and hasn’t talked to her since.

Abby grabs her arm roughly and pulls her around to face her. “Raven, I _cannot believe_ you did that without consulting me first. It’s somethi—for god’s sake, _we talked about this_.”

The look Abby blasts her with could wither anyone else but Raven isn’t anyone else—not anymore, not ever.

The transition isn’t instantaneous. Like antibiotics, the City of Light takes a couple of days to acclimate to her system and start its work. She’d struggled to sit up and form words when she’d come to herself a couple of hours ago. There was no pain or exhaustion. She was at the center of a galaxy, and silver coated starlight cascaded over her skin. She drank it in. It was cold, as chill as the vacuum she knew and loved with her whole soul, and she sighed. She was home. Her consciousness floats since then, comes in and out of the ordinary. She’s cloaked in quicksilver.

Her unconcerned, studied silence drives Abby into a low, forceful tirade. Raven’s arm is still immobilized in Abby's unnecessary vice-like grip, but she doesn’t much feel like pulling away. She kind of loves having Abby tell her what to do. 

“Did you calculate or review any of this? Do you know what could possibly happen to your endocrine system? The side effects are unknown. Do you know anything about yourself biologically, physically, and neurologically? Can you even imagine what that chip might be doing to your limbic system—silicon filaments attaching to cellular—“ Abby’s so angry she’s having a hard time finishing, “You have _no idea_ —you don’t just get to turn pain off. Not chronic pain.“

Raven kisses her. Not to shut her up, but because she’s gorgeous and fierce and kind. She wants Abby to laugh again, and she’s wanted to kiss her forever, and she does, in fact, owe her a kiss.

Raven frames Abby’s face with her hands and steadies her, tracing Abby’s lips with the back of her hand. She explores her cheekbones lightly, gently letting her hands calm them both. It sounds like Abby growls a warning, but Raven doesn't care, and the slow tracing of Raven’s mouth over and over smooth, warming skin just below Abby’s jawline settles her and excites her in ways it really shouldn’t.

Raven moves closer, her body fits into all the spaces that separate them, and she ends up flush against Abby, enveloped in her scent, her strength—she smells like the woods in autumn, or the quiet world right after a first snow—Raven’s overwhelmed with memories she hasn’t had yet. Raven encircles her in her arms and waits, silently asking for more. She follows her hands with her mouth, tracing Abby’s lips, lightly, so as not to startle. Abby’s heat is intoxicating.

“I just don't hurt anymore. Abby. I’m still me,” she brushes their mouths together and smiles, “I’m still the hottest, most intelligent person in the room, besides you.”

Abby, thank god, does laugh at that, and finally, finally draws Raven closer and kisses her in all the ways Raven’s wanted to be kissed her entire life. Raven leans away slightly and takes a deep breath, and then lets herself go. With a soft exhale, they kiss again and Raven melts into her. Her palms skate over Abby’s neck, shoulders and down just above her heart—the pulse steady and beautifully strong. Abby's mouth is soft and yielding, firm and hungry, and Raven’s delighted to realize they’re still taking their time; that this is just a beginning.

Raven’s very happy she’s actually present for this kiss, because if the other night’s events, while she was incandescent and overcome, was a total mind blow—this is actually unreal. Abby’s fingers smooth over the nape of her neck, her hair, undoing it from its tie and drawing the lustrous heavy curls through her fingers. Raven’s hands cup gently around Abby’s face. She patiently lets Abby explore her. She thinks vaguely that this is so not the right time for this to be happening.

Abby’s hand dips below her shirt and up, she strokes Raven’s taut, soft skin until Raven drops her head on to Abby’s shoulder with a low moan. Abby turns her head slightly and smiles into Raven’s shoulder when she hears it; they have time. They'll make time. She draws out tasting Raven’s skin with gentle open-mouthed kisses all along her neck and jawline before she finds Raven’s mouth again with a quiet moan. The slide of their tongues the warmth between them makes Raven lightheaded, grateful. So grateful. She doesn’t know how much time passes. She does know that Abby’s breath on the sensitive skin behind her ear is causing liquid heat to suffuse her and all of this is probably going to kill her. Shock, panic, and disbelief will come later—she's going to die from the memories. Every small sound, every murmur, every response.

Raven's been so cold and broken for so long, after Finn, after Murphy. Abby's been through as much. She’s hidden it well, better than Raven did and with worse consequences, and Raven remembers dimly that Abby’s well-meaning arrogance _really_ pisses her off. It makes Abby inaccessible and reckless with Raven and Clarke, with _Skaikru’s_ place in a dangerous political landscape. Raven’s not sure Kane could have done any better, but Pike is a monster; there’s no doubt.

So it takes her a half a minute too long to gather herself and really concentrate on what’s brought them here. 

It’s Raven who pulls away reluctantly; she brings her fingers up to ghost over the corner of Abby's lip and Abby takes two of them into her mouth, slides her tongue over them before pulling away to give Raven an unreadable smile. She tucks a strand of Raven's hair behind her ear and then very deliberately moves away and out of Raven’s arms.

“This is the point where you slap me,” Raven murmurs into the quiet between them.

Abby stills and searches Raven’s face; her hands tighten reflexively and her eyes are hot. Raven wants to see humor and care—it's almost there and Raven lets it be what she’ll remember.

Abby gives her a faint smile. “Maybe someday.”

“That’s better,” Raven smiles.

This is not something they are going to talk about right now. Abby glances around, at ease, amused, sated for the moment. “Where are we? I have some idea, but this is your show, honey.”

Raven practically melts at the endearment; she always does, goddamit. She rolls her eyes to cover the flush of heat and slight mortification and says, “We're beneath the mainframe servers. Something didn’t feel right. Something’s wrong.”

The truth of it is that this entire station of the Ark is wired, and Raven's body is behaving as if an alarm has been breached. Part of that wiring and programming is surveillance. What’s alarmed Raven is what she’s picking up from a pre-Fall datasphere support; a side effect from having plugged into the mainframe with A.L.I.E earlier. The question is when had she joined A.L.I.E in there? As far as she was concerned she just did the work of rebooting it. She didn’t, couldn’t have, entered the amorphous system of data carriers. That’s impossible.

Abby’s been briefed on the schematics at the very least. It’s where Kane’s found a small stretch of tunnel useful for leaving the settlement without anyone being alerted. It’s an old passageway. It was old when they were in orbit. Only Mechs had keycards for it—it’s all garbage chutes and ventilation systems—no one else was interested. Of course Raven would know about it, and ever since she jacked A.L.I.E into the system, she knows a whole bunch more about the ancient blueprints than she did previously. Or really, in a different way. Something.

They both silently agree to forget for a minute that they’re fully wrapped up in each other—that up until moments ago they’re technically not speaking but incautiously hyper-aware of one another, despite the massive amounts of irritation rolling off Abby all week. This is an adventure mission. And then they hear it.

Abby listens, one moment, a moment more. Her beautifully expressive eyes go wide. Raven can even see them in the dark. “Oh— _that’s Clarke_.”

It’s only then that Raven grabs her by the arm and hauls her forward.

* * *

They throw themselves through the door (completely unnecessary, it’s unlocked, but whatever) to a tableau that’s basically insane.

Octavia has a machete to Bellamy’s throat, and Clarke has his hands, which are tied behind his back, as she simultaneously tries to push her way in between the two siblings. Clarke is hissing at Octavia. From what Raven can gather, Clarke’s talking Octavia down from a homicidal ledge as quickly as possible.

Raven can pretty much say she’s never seen anything like this, but then she wasn’t around when they threw John Murphy out of camp after they failed to lynch him. She’s only heard rumors of the brutality. This looks a lot like what she’s heard. John Murphy. What had he done? Who was he to her? He was one of the first Expendables. Her mind kicks and pops; it feels like her brain reboots within a second. She expands; the future is fluid, or time itself is, and maybe she needs to let her concentration waver. She steadies herself and comes back to the room. She was looking at a sad drama of chaos, and Octavia was successfully beating both Bellamy and Clarke’s faces in.

Abby vaults over the table and launches herself against Octavia’s side with a sickening crunch. Both women smash against the far wall and crumple together, the wind knocked out of them. Octavia gets the worst of it, hurtling sideways; she hits her head with a sickening crack. Octavia goes down wincing and clutching the side of her skull. That one will hurt for a few days at least. Raven’s done that before. Bellamy moans pitifully into the awful, embarrassed quiet, and Clarke stops yelling or whatever she was doing. She spits blood and Raven runs towards Bell. He seems to be the one in the direst shape.

Raven takes him in her arms, he’s not responsive and feels like dead weight, and settles him down on the floor. His face has been pounded, and she rips part of his shirt to stem the massive nosebleed. She checks his mouth perfunctorily—glad he still has all his teeth.

“Clarke, untie him. It’s all right—I have him. Do it, please.” She talks slowly and without much inflection. Slows it down for everyone, like this is an everyday thing. Clarke does what she’s told.

Raven continues to tend to his face. His head rolls spastically, and he tries to stay focused on her. Coughs blood and spit. “Shhhhh, babe. Take it easy,” she projects her voice for the whole room to hear. Everybody just needs to calm down. She’ll be as authoritative and gentle as she can be. Not one of them is stable right now, so she and Abby have to lay the foundations.

Abby rights herself and ties Octavia’s arms in firm knot behind her back, reluctance apparant in every move. At least now they won’t have to worry about her hurting herself or Bellamy, but the other three women are tense and uncomfortable.

“Someone start talking,” Abby says, calmly. She's used to being obeyed in the OR. “Now, please.” 

No one does. Shock is setting in. She feels Bellamy’s pulse, it’s thready. She checks Clarke’s pupils; they’re dilated and she looks pale, her skin is clammy. None of this is good. Raven hands Clarke a canteen of water she carries with her.

“Just sip it, Clarke. Take a breath.” Abby takes the bottle back and shares it around the room. With Bellamy, she has to wash the blood away first with her sleeve.

Abby begins to talk to Clarke but doesn’t touch her. Raven immediately sees why. Clarke, after searching her mother’s face, is about to hyperventilate. She’s not hurt physically except for some fading bruises on her face, but she’s suffering emotionally, and Abby does something Raven’s never experienced. Abby’s voice is modulated, whispered in an ear—it’s for Clarke only, pitched for Clarke.

“Clarke. Tell me what’s happened. What happened to your face? Did Octavia or Bellamy do that?”

Clarke looks up, and Raven can imagine what she looked like as a little girl. They may have seen each other around then, but she could never forget those eyes. She knows this look, the haunted, piercing blue eyes that she assumes Clarke got from her father—and she knows that Clarke is fighting like her father did because he thought what he was doing was right and that the best in everyone would win out. Everything else but the highest sense of love in others is pulling Jake’s daughter under, and she’s about to let go of whatever small thing she’s holding on to— whatever’s keeping her afloat, barely. What she’s probably holding onto is the core of uncaged chaos in her and the smallest amount of love, somewhere.

What Abby’s doing is primal. The first voice a baby recognizes and responds to his her mother’s. Abby’s voice pulls her daughter back towards a variety and life, a beating heart. Clarke’s eyes focus on Abby, after what seems like forever. While Abby talks to a broken animal trying to gnaw its way out of a trap, narrowly alive.

“Mom, what has Pike… Bellamy… all of you. What have you done?” Clarke gasps for breath; she’s drowning and leans heavily against a chair. “They’re going to kill us all.”

* * *

The five of them race over the terrain like they were born to it, illuminated by a setting blood red sun, the flames of it slowly fading, taunting them. There are densely packed stars appearing as they bolt towards whatever consequences await them, as they tear themselves apart to make their case to the Commander.

Fire consumes the sky at the last of the light and slowly turns them into flickering embers, golden sparks weaving through the corridors of trees. Raven imagines they’re tracking screams of the dead, but all they’re really doing is following the stench of death on shifting winds. It’s easy. Octavia is ahead; she only pauses when the others hesitate. Her fury is palpable. Raven knows that if Octavia could, she’d kill Bellamy right now and save him from Finn’s fate. Bell agrees to this, to come with them, out of a bone-deep need to be slaughtered and put out of his misery.

Something in him will always fiercely choose atonement over revenge, where his sister’s concerned. There’s no other way this can be fixed. Octavia loves Lincoln and Octavia is all Grounder, she was never _Skaikru_ —she wasn’t even supposed to be born. So Bellamy has no other choice. The silence that envelops them is weighted with that truth, and they just run. Bellamy jogs easily behind Octavia, even when physically a wreck he’s a superb specimen, and doesn’t say a word.

Abby sighs when they stop just at the ridge. As tired and upset as she is, her consolation is that she’s with Clarke, and the only thought of death that frightens her is Clarke’s. It’s a confused and confusing time. She wants to take Raven, Kane and Clarke and these other two away with her, deep into the unknown territory west of here and keep on going. They can have Pike and they can have their war.

Lexa meets them, alone; her quiet fury makes hot tears of panic and dread sting at the back of Clarke's eyes. Lexa looks at Bellamy. Before any of them so much as protest or raise their hands in peace, she gives a subtle signal and two men materialize out of the woods and drag him to the ground and beat him unconscious. He doesn't struggle. Octavia looks on undisturbed.

* * *

“What would you have me do, Clarke?” Lexa’s question sounds amused as if she’s truly interested. Which she most decidedly is not. There’s nothing that Clarke can offer. Bellamy is, after all of that, an afterthought and underling—not worth the Commander’s time. Roan stands beside her and he stares at her unblinking.

Before Clarke can speak Abby steps forward, “Which one of you beat her?”

“That would be me,” Roan says hopefully. He wants this to end very badly for Clarke’s pathetic little group.

“You beat my daughter,” Abby says. Raven swears she hears a soft growl.

“Your people killed 300 of ours, a peacekeeping army.” Roan cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, bored. “Yes, I beat your daughter. She can thank me for it.”

Abby draws in a breath before Indra cuts in, “Think very carefully before you say anything more, Chancellor.”

“I’m not Chancellor. And that’s not how you treat an Ambassador.”

“It was Pike,” Bellamy says from the corner where he’s been propped up. Water has been splashed on him to return him to consciousness. His voice is garbled and nasally, and he’s spitting bile and blood when he can to clear his throat. “Chancellor Pike. Farm Station. _Azgeda_ —“

“It was Pike, and _you_ were with him on the field of Blood; you spared me so I can live in shame, broken. I’ll be precise and explicit. I’m going to kill you.” Indra says. She’s also laid up in another area of the tent. 

“ _Azgeda_ has paid the price,” Lexa says without rancor as if she hasn’t been interrupted and the situation isn’t about to spiral into even more lunacy. “We were bringing _Skaikru_ the Queen as reparation for Mount Weather and your dead. You are, _were_ , a part of the Coalition.”

“ _Heda_ ,” Indra says, “They would have done this anyway, and this is how they are—since this world is theirs by right, and all others can rot.“ She says this with heat and no small amount of bitterness, ”so no matter.”

Octavia stands by her. No one stands by Bellamy.

“And now you die,” Roan says.

“So I’m asking you again, Clarke.” Lexa says, “What would you have me do.”

Clarke refuses to look at Roan. “There are factions. Not all of us want this. There are good people there, still. This massacre was carried out by a small group out of many and they were led by a psychopath,” she throws a disgusted glance at Bellamy, “with weapons you refuse to use. One barely trained soldier with one of these guns can wipe out thirty of your warriors in less than a second. They did. They’ll do it again. But it was a fraction of those who live in Arkadia. And no one will follow Pike into a war they can’t win.”

“Pike was elected, was he not?”

Clarke doesn’t, can’t answer this. She’s as furious as everyone there, most of all at her mother, Kane, and Pike, and a part of her doesn’t ever want to go back, doesn’t want to care for these fucking idiots any longer.

“Yes, he was,” Abby says. “Pike saw most of his kin slaughtered by Ice Nation. It’s no wonder he’s reacted this way.” The words are a calculated risk, placating and a rebuke. Raven knows without a doubt that Abby just offered herself up as a target. 

Clarke whips her head around to stare at her mother and then approaches Lexa. Five men block her way and Lexa gestures for them to fall back.

“Stay where you are, Clarke. Don’t come near me.”

Clarke’s exhaustion shows itself in a fleeting look of dismay. Usually, she’s better at politics and holding a room. Lexa's telling her she’s not allowed shelter from a storm. She shakes it off and remains where she is, “Do _not_ do this. ‘Blood must have Blood’ will lead to continuous upheaval. There will never be peace; you will never rest. You can do better than that; you can choose a different way. Anyone who survives, and there will be survivors, they’ll rise up in ten, twenty years—it doesn’t matter—but the vengeance they seek will be a never-ending cycle. If a body bleeds out you give it more blood. Blood is hungry. Lexa, you can stop it. Only you.”

“We were perfectly fine before your people came, Clarke. We are a Coalition, something undreamed of until now. Until me.” Lexa’s calm this time is a pointed, vicious reprimand to all of them. _Skaikru_ really is expendable. The world went on without them for almost a century, after all.

“We destroyed the Mountain.” Clarke says just as quietly, “You needed us before you knew you needed anyone.”

“Mm. Point, _Skaikru_.” Roan drawls.

Lexa gathers her cloak around herself and walks the length of the tent floor and then turns back. When she does she’s looking straight at Raven, through her; scenting prey. “What is this?” She whispers, “What have you done, Little Bird?”

Raven hesitates and stumbles on her words, shocked at Lexa’s use of her pet name—something no one else knows. She’s not frightened. There are the little details of two executions between her and the Commander, one failed and one ultimately carried out by Clarke as a mercy killing. At least she’d given Clarke the knife.

Raven takes a deep breath and really thinks about it instead of reacting. Lexa was in the process of  _executing_ her—she was the asshole Lexa believed tried to  _murder her_. Clarke’s reveal that Raven didn’t do the crime she was accused of came after the first round of an unbearably painful near flaying with the Commander’s knife slicing her sides open. She’d bled and passed out until Lexa released her. So Raven’s slow halfwit reaction is understandable, even if it makes her look like she’s drunk.

Since the City of Light chip, Raven’s purposeless self-pity has almost completely disappeared, as has her guilt for her part in most of Farm Station’s death in the second occupation of Mount Weather. It was never technically her fault anyway. The woman who ordered the resettlement is the woman who kissed her into oblivion just an hour ago. So instead of answering, she shrugs, and Lexa stalks closer.

It’s sometime deep in the night, right before the earliest of the morning, the clouds outside the tent are racing above their heads, and the sun won’t be visible for another three hours. In the candlelight, Lexa’s eyes scan her. She means _“scan”_ literally. She’s being read. Somehow she’s not surprised that the A.L.I.E. doesn’t make an appearance right now—she’s on her own. A.L.I.E’s gone to ground. Raven is awake and not pleased to be so. Lexa’s eyes never leave hers, but the Commander isn’t _there._

“Clarke,” Lexa asks, not turning away from Raven, “You've been living with _Skaikru’s_ enemy. If it were me, and you walked thru their gates, I'd kill you on the spot. Why did no one kill you?"

Clarke has absolutely no doubt Lexa would and can kill her at any moment. She has no illusions about that anymore; nor does she want them. She will never argue with reality again.

“No one saw me, just these three and my mother.”

“She’s loved,” Abby says quietly. “I love her. I wouldn’t kill her.”

“Neither would I,“ Bellamy says, “and I’m supposed to.”

“I might,” Octavia says.

“Shut up, Octavia.” Raven and Indra both sigh.

Octavia does for about a minute and then lets loose, “ _Skaikru_ is not mine. I have no one there,” she doesn’t even spare a glance towards her brother. “My allegiances are to Indra and Lincoln, both of your Clan, Heda. I can’t, won’t stand with any of these people. I know what happened at Tondc—“

“Is that a threat?" Lexa cuts her off mildly, “You knew and I gave the kill order. I would have brought death down on your head faster than you wash your hands of him,” she gestures towards Bellamy, “Do you know who saved you? I sent my warrior to cut you down where you stood and Clarke stopped him. It says nothing of you that you would disavow your Clan, your kin. Indra should have taught you better.”

That shuts Octavia up. She looks at Clarke wildly and Clarke declines her head in agreement but says nothing else. Confusion.

“So tell us, Clarke, have you come up with a way to save your people yet again?” Lexa finally turns away from Raven, letting her go. She stumbles back as if she’s been dropped from a far height, released from a bird of prey’s talons and Abby shoots her a look, curious.

“Someone has to take the first step. Do it, Commander. You say you want peace. Everything you've done was to achieve that. Now all of us stand on the brink of another war—a war you can stop.” Clarke will go down on her knees if she has to; Lexa must see it. Roan certainly does and narrows his eyes.

“Commander, you can't seriously be considering this.” From the shadows, Titus finally comes forward into the light of the room. Raven almost jumps out of her skin. She didn’t see him.

“I'm not considering it.” Lexa raises her eyes to him and crosses slowly back to the table, intentionally hiding her face from Clarke. Clarke’s eyes swim and her legs betray her. Raven supports her with an arm around the waist. Abby is on Clarke’s other side. Titus relaxes almost at once.

“I'm doing it,” Lexa says. Clarke has honest-to-god never seen Roan look shocked. Maybe mildly taken aback or irritated, but never shocked. Not even in the arena. Shock this morning became rage, and she’d borne the brunt of it. But this is Roan truly disturbed and a little in awe.

“Let it be known. Blood must not have Blood.”

Roan bows to Lexa, then turns to Titus, takes in the look on his face and laughs. “You need a drink, don’t you?”

* * *

Roan finds Clarke standing by herself just beyond the warm glow of the camp's torches. He’s carrying a cloak, hesitates and then comes to her, taking her hand in his. They stand like that, together. Clarke glances down at the cloak, dark red, Lexa’s cloak. He gives to her. It feels like a gift, and she feels tears forming that should have been shed months ago, a lifetime ago, form in her eyes at his gesture. She's been crying all day.

“You have a _very_ attractive mother.” He says.

God, seriously? This man. She bursts out laughing and he grins. His plan worked. He grows serious again after a moment. “We’re leaving my mother here, under the sun for your patrols and carrion to find. Might as well finish what we came to do.”

“I’m sorry, Roan. I’m sorry about your mother.”

He inhales unsteadily and says nothing.

“This cloak’s not for me, is it?” She asks.

He shakes his head no. “There’s a stream just there,” in the light of the moon she can just make out where he points towards, “A beautiful clear stream. No nasty mutant anything swims there. Just fish and the water is clear and potable. Lexa and I and the others use to explore and play war games there as children. The path’s just there.” 

She follows the path until the trees clear and the full moon casts a glow on the bioluminescent minnows and trout that swim just below the surface of the stream he had said would be there. Lexa stands at its edge and looks up at the sky. If she hears Clarke, and she must, she doesn’t turn in greeting or acknowledge her in any way.

Clarke’s overcome with something she can’t name; it’s tender and fierce. She approaches Lexa and places the cloak over Lexa’s shoulders. The Commander stiffens against the intrusion and then relaxes again taking the edges of it and closing it around both of them. Even in the night and moonlight, Lexa is approachable to her, open. She knows that Lexa can feel her gaze and at least she has the strength to keep watching her and not crush the growing want before it blooms in her. For once, she wishes for the deep, abiding vulnerability Lexa carries with her as strength to be focused on her, and her alone. Maybe this will be the only night that will ever happen; so she’s content to stay wrapped up next to Lexa and just be.

“Lexa,” Clarke says her name like a prayer. “Lexa, say the word and I’ll never go back there. I— what they’ve done—“

“You don’t mean that,” it’s not a reprimand of any kind. It’s said so gently she doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know how to tell this extraordinary woman how angry she still is at her, or how she doesn’t know if she can trust her, trust anyone; it’s a paralyzing stasis that will gut her of any humanity eventually and she’s terrified and feels so alone that her heart physically hurts. Abby once told her that people can die of broken heart syndrome—a real medical condition—and she’d been such a shit that she’d asked her why Abby hadn’t died when Jake did.

“How can you not be scared?” It’s a little girl’s question, and Lexa looks at her as an equal. And that seems to be all the answer she’ll get.

“Roan and I used to play here,” Lexa says instead, placing her cheek against Clarke’s. It's for warmth more than anything else, the night carries a chill.

“He said.”

Dangerously broken, bruised beyond repair, tired of every death that lies between them—Clarke sighs into Lexa’s neck. The Commander reaches for her carefully and wraps both her arms around her and rocks her gently like a child.

* * *

The procession of the Dead back to Polis had started a day before; reinforcements for that grim purpose had been called and they had done the job efficiently and quickly. By the time dawn comes, a brilliant show of color splayed across a low cloud ceiling, the field has been cleared and Lexa has her horse brought to her. The rest have escorted Indra and Bellamy back to Polis; there was no discussion about that. Bellamy’s not a prisoner, but he’s certainly not an honored guest. The only thing he has going for him is Abby, Raven and Clarke’s word of honor. That’s enough for Lexa, although Titus just tapped his fingernails on his lower lip and scowled like a bastard. He obeys Lexa in all things but Clarke’s asked Roan to keep an eye on things anyway. 

Octavia has disappeared, sometime in the night Indra had dismissed her bitterly, and no one dares ask the wounded woman about it. As Lexa mounts, she gives a last order before riding.

“That one will follow us to Polis with a select guard,” Lexa indicates Raven with a jut of her chin; her eyes cold and searching. There’s nothing left of the girl who stood with Clarke under the canopy of stars and sang her an old lullaby. It was beautiful. Mournful like the scratchy recordings of sea shanties and Clarke had drifted in her embrace.

“That one, most importantly,” Lexa repeats the directive almost to herself and Raven swears she can feel the trail of fire the Commander’s eyes leave all over her imprinting on her skin, and she can’t ignore Clarke and Abby’s confused faces. All their senses are engaged with hers and she wants to crawl out of her skin.

“I’m coming with you,” Clarke says.

Lexa nods and managing to be both indifferent and virulent, doesn't look at her, “Your horse is just there, there’s one for your mother, as well.” she points to a copse of trees. “You’ll find a small pack of supplies and water. You must make a choice.” She wheels her mount and heads towards the mountains and her City a day’s ride away. “You’re still Ambassador and you still have a tyrant here. Do what you will.”

Clarke leans forward unconsciously into the cold morning mist and draws her jacket around her; she needs to keep moving and she’ll need her mother’s help.

Roan, uncharacteristically quiet and already in the small train of riders, reaches down as he passes and slings Raven up and over his saddle without so much as breaking his horse’s easy lope. Raven curses and lands a kidney punch. He barely grunts for her efforts and she’s settled with her back against his chest before she knows what’s happened. Raven swings her head around frantically to find Clarke and Abby standing still against the backdrop of the forest, slowly being obscured by a rising cloud of dust. Abby raises her hand and then she loses sight of them as they crest and descend a rise.

Abby and Clarke remain under the roiling sky of an early morning late spring thunderstorm, in a field already watered with blood. For a long time, they watch the imprint of the last _Trikru_ disappear like mirages into the foothills; leaving the trampled, destroyed patch of haunted earth behind until the sun begins to lengthen the shadows around them again. They’ve been standing for hours.

They’re each lost in their own thoughts, the horror of the last two days weighs heavily, almost crushing both of them in different ways. But they don’t move and it’s impossible for them to embrace. The anger they’ve lived with for months is gone and nothing they recognize is growing more powerful by the minute. They’re alone. They both look towards the eastern ridge of cliffs, but the mist obscures everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOBODY DIES.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In the church of my heart, the choir is on fire.” Vladimir Mayakovsky

Raven loves this. Whatever Lexa is, it's immense. It's powerful. Lexa is a quietly terrifying creation. And it doesn't exactly like her.

“I am a virus. You are a parasite.” Lexa announces to her over a beautifully laid out meal.

Raven has no idea how to respond to that (rude), so she drinks as much as she can of the first very good wine she’s ever had, tells them a dazzling array of stories she eventually loses track of, ends up entertaining both of them immensely, teaches them some drinking games, and she vaguely remembers being carried to her quarters. The next morning she has a massive hangover and a Roan sprawled out in bed next to her, fully clothed.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mumbles, grumpy. “Nothing happened. Close the damn curtains.”

“You are not my type. At the moment.”

“Oh, yes?” Roan cracks an eye open and then sighs dramatically. “God,  _what is it_  with you ladies and the Commander?”

“Her soft vulnerability and trembling dulcet core of fragility,” Raven says, rolling over and curling up in the wonderful, divine fur covers and snuggling into him. No wonder Clarke stayed here as long as she could, “No, you ass. Not Lexa.”

“Mm. Oh.  _Ooooh._ ” Roan pokes her, “Fuck, yes. You did say somewhat last night about Clarke’s mother. I approve. She’s—“

Raven sits straight up in bed, mortified, “Shut UP. What did I say?”

“Nothing at all. But you just won me a rather beautiful horse. Lexa and I had a running bet on that subject since meeting you both.”

“Please leave.”

“No.” Roan goes back to sleep.

* * *

The first morning, they swim.

Abby is up before dawn and wanders down the path to the stream. It’s running hard, the snowmelt is recent, and the water is a brilliant jade. There’s a deeper area where the depth of the pool goes down eight feet. It’s very clear and cold, and it’s early first light—the world still blue and the shadows fading—the kaleidoscope phosphorescence of the minnows, small trout, and moss glow in the faint daybreak.

Clarke says it’s safe. She undresses, giddy like a kid, and wades in. Entranced, she dunks her head all the way. She feels a light shiver down her spine, and she can hear birds singing, water bubbling up from the underground springs. It’s the first real water Abby’s been able maybe ever. Showering on the Ark and down here is utilitarian and communal.

Clarke appears a few minutes later, raising her brows in anticipation, and follows her mother in. They luxuriate, not talking, watching the sun come up through high firs. The cloud cover broke overnight.

They scrub themselves and their clothes. They spread those out on rocks and then lie out in the warming sun, the grass wet with fading dew beneath them, the water beading on their skin and drying in minutes in the light, warm wind. There are cherry blossoms blooming. Clarke hadn’t seen those last night. They are both utterly charmed.

Clarke brings out some cured meat to share, and she tells Abby about the engineered hot pools in Polis. They don’t talk about the field just beyond the wood’s edge or the Queen’s body. They don’t talk about Lexa, Kane, Bellamy, Octavia, Roan or Raven. 

“Dad would have loved it here."

Abby holds her gaze and smiles. she knows how deep the hurt goes. 

Clarke takes Abby’s hand. “I haven’t wanted to talk about him.”

Abby stays silent. This is important.

“We were all dying—he knew it. He didn't listen to you, did he?” Clarke looks at her.

“He didn't need to. Jake was a stubborn pain in the ass, but he was right. I was wrong. He died because I trusted Thelonius.” Abby takes a breath and is about to go on, but Clarke squeezes her hand. Clarke is overwhelmed.

“Sweetheart, listen to me," Abby murmurs, "I didn’t know any better. Jake thought that if the population knew we would all stop being bastards, stop being strangers to each other and work together—he trusted people would make the right decisions with the information he gave them. I didn't. Jaha didn't. Everything was damaged and fatal, even hope. That’s not an excuse. I loved him and I killed him, Clarke. I’ve never met anyone like him,” she tugs at Clarke’s fingers playfully. “Except you, of course.”

“I see him all the time, those last moments. I’m trying to—”

“You watched him die.”

“I’ve done horrible things, mom. I’m nothing like him.”

“You know what he used to say? When you’ve done something unforgivable, forgive yourself.”

* * *

They have a decision to make. They don’t even really need to discuss it. All Abby says is that she’ll do more good than harm if she’s not in Arkadia right now. They’ll miss her desperately in her role as CMO, that Pike will learn the hard way what that means, that any wounded will only add to _Skaikru_ 's stupidly enormous cache of tactical problems.

The settlement is also running out of stores and clean water. Without Raven there to oversee the engineering crew—even Sinclair and Wick can only do so much without her—she’s banking on Marcus understanding her disappearance for what it is. So this decision is the only one.

Clarke mutters somewhat wryly about Lexa probably knowing what they were going to do before leaving them. They should just fuck with her and take a week or so to return to Polis. Abby laughs and agrees.

“Do you know why they took Raven, mom?”

“No idea. But I think the Commander knows more about the City of Light than we do. There’s no other reason she would be interested in Raven.”

Abby gives Clarke a quick overview of Jaha’s return and the extreme line of nirvana he’s been peddling. She explains that too many people have started to listen, and she talks about Raven’s justifications for taking the chip.

“I understand that,” Clarke says. “She told me Finn took the fall for her on the Ark. She’d gone out for an unauthorized spacewalk while they were on the Ark, he went to Lock-up instead of her. And then down here—” Clarke trails off. She and Raven need to talk. 

Abby saw the depths of guilt in Raven’s eyes. Not often, but it’s there. It’s why she agreed to let Raven come with her in the escape pod, even if she couldn’t put a finger on what it was. It was the same desperation to get to someone she loved.

Raven’s transparent. It’s hard to miss. She never talks about him, but Abby’s seen her take the necklace off and stare at it for hours.

Clarke goes on, “She gave me the knife I used to kill him, Mom. Can you imagine? We both loved him. The whole thing was so stupid. That will always be between us, so I think I understand her a little bit. I respect her. I want to take away my own pain. So do you.”

“We all would.” Abby’s angry, and her heart constricts at Clarke’s words. “But the ‘ _healing’_  properties of the chip are silicon-based. I don’t see that as anything other than parasitic to our physiology, our limbic or nervous systems. Invasive. But, yes. Her chronic physical pain is or seems to be, gone. The dopamine and serotonin levels all point to it.”

“A.I. researchers were always focused on developing intelligent systems that make people's lives easier—to anticipate our needs and desires,” Clarke says. “We all had to sit through those classes. They were horrible, worse than Earth Skills. We hated them.”

“She should have consulted me.” Abby bites out.

Clarke stifles a laugh and decides not to respond to the obvious, “We know what caused the Fall, so yeah, I'm worried. Raven’s a big girl; she’s been more on point than I have, and for a longer time. I really think she’s at the end of her rope. The short-term impact of an A.I. depends on who controls it, and right now that’s Raven. It was her choice.” 

Abby shakes her hair out, “The long-term impact depends on whether it can be controlled at all— whether she really does want the pain gone as much as she thinks she does. And now that it’s in her system, I don’t know what it’s doing. Jaha explained it to me briefly, and it scares me. I can’t imagine it’s a helpful thing, to forget. If the pain receptors are being shut down—we know the answer to that." She sweeps her hand through the air as if to indicate the whole last century, where they are and how they got here. “She didn’t think, and Raven always thinks.”

“No, she doesn’t, she comes from her heart. She’s impulsive and really fucking stubborn. She’s proud. And if you could forget about Dad, if I could forget Mount Weather and TonDC…” Clarke shrugs. “I don’t blame her.”

When they go to feed the horses and repack the saddlebags, Clarke finds a cloak in her pack.

“That’s beautiful,” Abby says.

“It’s Lexa’s cloak,” Clarke says softly. 

“I’d imagine so.”

* * *

They’re being tracked.

Abby should have known, and Clarke certainly knows. 

It's not exactly a complete surprise, in their situation, in this territory where they really have no claim—and as tired and battered as they are—the thought of possible death is all just mild, resigned irritation at this point.

Clarke quickly assesses Abby’s usefulness and tells her to keep the dagger, also found in the packs, by her side. She’s surprised when Abby lets her know she’s brought a shocklash with her.

Abby seriously doesn’t even want to know how her once very sheltered and entitled daughter became a hunter. She does know how she became a killer. 

As they make their way to the city, they decide to leave the open road and sky—it’s called The Commander’s Road. There are trading posts along the way, taverns and way stations to rest and eat. It’s the most traveled area and the easiest place they could be recognized and questioned. They have to assume that even with the Commander’s cloak, the odds of them being protected are low. So they head off into the forest and weave their way through the heavy old growth camouflaged, barely, in dense shade.

* * *

Lexa puts the vellum scrolls in front of Raven, “Here’s the code, as we know it.”

Raven reads for a bit, “This isn’t code. It’s a manifesto,” She points to a section, “...not code,” she recites, _thefactories suspended from the sky by the thread of their smoke._ What year is this from?”

“Very early 20th century. Before the Fall.”  
  
Raven thinks for a minute. She tries to come up with a way to translate this _thing_  to the Commander. “This is extremely naive, they’re not talking about the art of coding or poetic forms of specs.”

“No, this is just the beginning, a response to a belief in science as a way to make a perfect society.” Lexa draws Raven’s hand over the lines of the page, “Look, that's what I mean, the attack on science and technology, as being somehow our enemy.”

“I think…” This interests Raven entirely, “well, but, yeah, their first approach to it was once we get control of the machines, we'll…”

Lexa walks to the window and looks out at the city, to the mountains beyond, a familiar view. Clarke is out there somewhere.

“I’ve never spoken to anyone about this, Raven. Not Titus. Maybe Clarke, someday…” Lexa stops and takes a deep breath, “That time period was—not the first, but one of the times—that a civilization came to terms with the reality of scientific progress and technological advance. It was the early twentieth century and the language, the poetics changed—poets spoke together in cars **,**  so they had to do something about the noise, about the landscape and the dust, about the speed of travel and our bodies’ new movement in time/space. It wasn't until then that anyone addressed it in that particular way. Sound poems, experiments with pure sound and new technologies and machinery never seen or imagined before became a new kind of poetry—I’ve seen language and poems on _laughter_ , the sounds of men in factories come from that era.” 

“And you think that was the beginning of A.L.I.E.” 

Lexa nods, “Something like that. It was one piece in a long string of new thought processes. Before that, language was all feeling/sense and the natural world. Not strictly, but it was the natural world—the seasons, the cyclical nature of time, the slowness of space traveled, that held sway and described dreams—which our species was very close to once. Like we are now, by necessity. We’re closer to heaven and hell. The forest on one hand and the ocean on the other—sky and earth, four doorways to the source of danger, magic (or tech as magic—because what else could it be), and stories. Maybe happy narratives. Maybe disaster.” 

Raven realizes with a start that Lexa’s entire being, her cadence, the way she speaks, her mannerisms have changed drastically. It’s subtle, but the difference is there and very clear to her.

Lexa turns and walks back to look down at Raven, her eyes flash across her face, “What do you remember of pain and language? What do you know of poetry, Raven? Less than before, I’d imagine. Language is not code. What do you remember of your heart? Why aren’t you worried for Abby and Clarke? You haven’t mentioned them in days. I— _we_  left them to fend for themselves.”

Raven sits back at that, “I don’t—why would—?”

“I almost executed you. I was about to flay you for treason, but for Clarke. Clarke saved you. You do remember me cutting you open? You remember the pain?”

“I—“

“You’re intelligent, Raven. One of the smartest people in this world or any other. You’ve known,  _felt somewhere_ , something was wrong since you entered the City of Light. Where’s A.L.I.E., Raven? Isn’t she usually with you?”

Raven shakes her head helplessly. A.L.I.E. hasn’t been by her side. Lexa’s smile is feral, “She can’t enter where I am.”

Lexa gathers the scrolls and stores them away. “Have you thought of Bellamy once since we arrived? Where he might be? What tortures I’ve subjected him to for his crimes against my people? Against the Coalition? Is he dead, Raven?” 

Raven suddenly can’t breathe.

* * *

_“Grounders at the gate, an ultimatum, one life to spare us all. How's that different from any other day around here? It's just, we've been here before with Finn. You remember that, right? I mean, I... I was in Mount Weather, but you... you remember Finn dying when Clarke killed... “_

_“I entered the City of Light to relieve my pain. Why would I remember that? Less talking, more looking, ok, Jasper?”_

_“I think it's a good thing you can't remember the bad stuff. That's what I want to forget. If I could wake up one morning without thinking about Maya dying, you know, if I could only remember the good stuff, like holding her hand for the first time and listening to our favorite music, you know, like when Finn gave you that necklace. Is that how it works, you can think of your first kiss and just be happy?”_

_“Of course. My first kiss. That's not important now. Our mission is to... When was my first kiss?”_

_“What? I don't know. Don't you?”_

_“I can't remember.”_

_“I got it.”_

_“All right. Give it to me. Good work.”_

_“Raven. Take it and go.”_

_“I don't remember.”_

_“Raven?”_

_“Finn was real. I loved him, right? What's going on?”_

_“Raven, you need to go.” A.L.I.E. makes herself very present. Her voice is modulated to carry but remains calm. She’s curious, interested. This is interesting and new. This has never happened before._

_“I don't remember anything about him at all. We can't let her have this. Run.”_

* * *

“While you’re here, Raven, we might as well work with real information.” In the fading light, Lexa’s expression is dangerous but her eyes are soft, kind. They never change. The empathy Raven sees in them might as well be a lifeline.

“Let me read you a little bit, from all the old World’s store of poetry, let me read to you about pain, suicide, things people need and never want to talk about. These are the things that make us human and whole, even traumatic experiences. What's so special about those ordinary things? They’re everything in the world."  
  
Raven closes her eyes and recites from god knows where “ _Steeped in love …”_

“Do you remember what you just said?”

Raven starts to cry, “No.”

“The tones of life, the synchronicities, the clusters of like minds and loves, the outrageousness and absurdities,  _the mistakes_ , what it means to be alive, like the overwhelming, crushing painful weight of machinery on everybody's head, their class systems, government, livelihoods, sense of self and then to completely  _wipe it all out_ —and dare to begin all over again and bomb it all to hell. Actually, it's the easiest way—Rebecca did it, the simplest code to write and perform. Her first program did it, her first program was a parasite preying on the neural systems of organic matter, and then Rebecca had to commit suicide when she got her revolution—when everything her program, her life’s work, an  _Artificial Intelligence_ —” Lexa pauses here, almost choking on her own emotions—it’s  _killing_  her to say this at all—it’s against everything she is. “It was in the code,  _no free will, no pain, no empathy, no true humanity, NO MISTAKES, no error_  was in the original code. What A.L.I.E. did was absolutely true to what she was, what she was created for. No one could have seen that the end of pain was endgame—the destruction of the human race, the very source of heartbreak as far as A.L.I.E’s directives could calculate. Wipe out the virus. This revolutionary art, this technology turns on its creator, to help them. To set them free from alienation and existential contradictions. To become our salvation.”

“It's a dance?“ Raven murmurs vaguely. It’s so hard to remember some things.  
  
Lexa cocks her head side to side, her eyes focused on nothing, “Yes and no. A dance is a dance and usually doesn’t end with 98% of the world in apocalyptic ruin. We’re talking about the end of the world, and you’re forgetting it as soon as I speak. Because it’s grief beyond imagining.”

Lexa bends down and caresses Raven’s face, “Raven,” Lexa whispers, “I honor you even if you don’t honor yourself.”

For the second time in Lexa’s life, she speaks to one of  _Skaikru_  like a lover.

“I am the second iteration. I come from inside the heart of the world to love you. I am the domain of love as a force. No more, no less. That is my directive. I am an autonomous, self-replicating, not-understandable entity, a virus. I have evolved over a century. I am a fiction, and I change with each organic, carbon-based host I am favored with.” Lexa shrugs and refocuses on Raven with a hint of a smile, takes her face in her hands and scans her again. Then she shakes like an animal shaking off water, and reboots.

“Pain is not being able to hear, see, feel, and remember. Life, the heart, is memory and dynamic presence. Abby will help.” Lexa says and lets her go.

Raven has never been so afraid in her life, of what, she doesn’t know.

“Think of Abby, Raven, and be well.”

* * *

The first shot comes from behind them and grazes Abby’s horse. She’s thrown violently to the ground, rendered helpless by a twisted ankle and a gun to her head.

Clarke spins her mount around and raises her hand to throw her knife, but Emerson cocks the safety and shakes his head. He looks like death warmed over, or probably as shocking as Clarke looked after three months on the run. His eyes are wild, blood covers him, his clothes are threadbare, and he’s emaciated.

“Please try something," he snarls, eyes bright and crazy, "I’ve waited a long time to kill someone you love.”

Clarke gambles, “Why wait?”

Emerson smiles, “She’s not you.”

Clarke drops the knife and slides off her horse, raises both her hands in supplication over her head, “Then I’m yours.”

“Clarke—“ Abby is cut short by a vicious pistol-whip to her temple. 

Emerson briefly checks Abby’s pulse and decides she’s out of commission. He trains the gun on Clarke. “This isn’t the way you’ll die. I’m going to drag you around the walls of Polis alive, hog-tied to your own horse, while they watch. While your mother watches.”

“I guess I deserve that.”

“That and more, friend.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I know,” Emerson sighs, “I’ll do my best. You’ve earned it.”

The knife throw comes from behind him. It lodges deep into his shoulder—the impact throws him violently off balance and slams him into a tree. He drops the gun and claws wildly behind him, shrieking and ineffectual.

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Roan says coming up to stand next to Clarke. He walks past her and bends down to Abby and gently rolls her into his arms, “Let’s help your mother. That’s going to hurt like a bitch for a few days.”

He palpates her bruised temple until Abby moans and winces away. “Can you stand?”

“Not without throwing up,” Abby whispers. 

“How’s the light?” 

“Bad. Photophobia.”

“Alright, I’ve got you.” He tears a piece of cloth from his shirt, covers her eyes, and ties it around her head, “Clarke, Ontari, Aden,” he doesn’t look up from Abby, and his voice is gentle and firm, “be useful and deal with that pathetic freak. We’re taking him with us.” He throws Clarke a smile. “Consider it a gift.”

Ontari comes out of the shadows to assist Clarke with Emerson. Clarke flinches away, remembering the black blood splashing her face. But Aden is right behind and smiles widely at Clarke, raising his hand in shy, triumphant greeting. Clarke grasps his forearm and tugs him into an embrace.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him.

Ontari's expression a mix of caution and something else Clarke remembers seeing before, fascination. Ontari had snapped to attention like a dog at Nia’s command. She was quick and intelligent, but she’d been trained to obey.

She’s different with Roan than she was with Nia. Clarke senses extreme wariness, not animosity. This girl was probably abused most of her life. Clarke can’t imagine what _Azgeda’s_ culture is like; she can’t imagine a more brutal, contradictory culture than  _Trikru_  or _Skaikru_. 

It exists. Ice Nation breeds assassins, the white war paint they use is terrifying; they’re legendarily atavistic. Roan is _Azgeda_ personified, as they should be not as they are. Abby told her about the assassin Raven took down the night Mount Weather blew, the night  _Skaikru_  was made the Thirteenth clan. She described him in a low, awe-struck voice, straight out of a creation myth, terrorizing nightmare material. He was a fanatic, ephemeral agent of a Hell realm. Clarke doesn’t know if Ontari has entered that province yet. Only Roan has any idea what Nia’s put her through.

“Not even Reapers scare me that much, Abby.” Raven had said. “I don’t know why I survived. I shouldn’t be here.”

Their progress back to Polis is leisurely because of Abby’s condition. Roan cradles her in his arms and takes the most manageable and good-natured horse. The other one, the one Emerson grazed with his bullet, gets the honor of dragging him behind her with his hands tied to her saddle.

“It’s only fair,” Roan smiles.

* * *

Clarke enters the Throne Room. Titus is talking and Clarke can tell by the set of the Commander's shoulders that Lexa's intensely irritated. Titus sees her and stops talking altogether, bows his head slightly, and steps away from both of them.

“You wanted to see me, Commander?” Clarke asks. 

“Yes. I need to discuss the fate of The Last Mountain Man, Emerson.”

“I believe he deserves death,” Titus speaks up.

“Clarke can speak for herself, Titus.”

“Titus is right. I want vengeance. I want him dead. Don’t you? What they did to your people, mine…” Clarke is uncomfortably aware that this is the first time they’ve seen each other since the day of their return. She feels winded, stunned by her intense reaction to seeing Lexa.

She’d had a quiet meal with Abby, Raven, and Roan the night they’d arrived, after a long soak. The strangest, most subdued meal with Roan ever. None of them had wanted to discuss anything. Her mother, for obvious reasons, was laid up comfortably in bed while the rest of them kept their own counsel and ate beside her. But Lexa has not been present until now and sent no word like they’d shared nothing at all. 

Lexa’s eyes narrow dangerously and her voice loses any small amount of warmth it had, “So blood must not have blood applies only when it is my people who bleed.”

“Who made the initial deal with Cage, Lexa? Who betrayed me at Mount Weather? This is about finishing it.” 

Lexa, glacially aggravated now, waves that away. “Not this again.”

That infuriates Clarke, “I agree with Titus. Emerson deserves to die for what he did.”

Titus inclines his head and bows slightly to her. Clarke almost snarls at him. 

“Make the decision, Clarke. He’s gifted to you. So what will it be? Banishment from our lands forever or death by 49 cuts for your 49 people from your hand?”

“My hand and Bellamy’s. I’ve made my decision.”

Lexa exits without saying a word. Titus looks at her with respect. “We’ll convene at sundown.”

“With Bellamy, Titus.”

“Of course,  _Wanheda_.”

“Stop fucking calling me that.”

* * *

Bellamy knocks and enters her room an hour later. Clarke practically leaps into his arms. He looks strong and healthy, his bruises and injuries healing. He hugs her fiercely.

“You’ve been treated well,” she says. “If Lexa ever decides to stop being a moody bitch, I’ll thank her for it.”

He laughs, “The Commander’s moods aren’t anything compared to yours. Give her a break. She’s sprung on you.”

“You clean up nice.” She steps back and looks at him.

“Remember when we were babies?”

“Remember when you were an arrogant asshole?” She hugs him tightly again.

He can barely meet her eyes. 

“I know all Grounders aren’t animals, I know that.” 

Clarke says nothing; she sees him flinch and her heart contracts. She should hate him.

“Yeah, Roan and I talked. I’ll go back after this.” Bellamy rubs at his face, sighs. “Even if I need to ‘escape’ I have to go back. Roan’s said he’d make that happen. Octavia just took off. I need to make sure Lincoln’s okay, for her. Maybe I can send them far away. Pike will kill or banish any Grounder he finds. I’m surprised he hasn't—I don’t blame him, Clarke, I understand him. What _Azgeda_ did—?“

“I know, Bellamy. I know about the children.”

“Do you?” 

“You pulled the lever with me, Bellamy. You didn’t let me do that alone. We killed innocents, too.”

"My mother, if she knew what I’ve done, who I am. She raised me to be better. To be good. And all I do is hurt people. I’m a monster.” He nods when she doesn't take her hand away and brings her palm to his mouth, kisses it, and holds it between his own. “I heard that you have Emerson?”

“ _Azgeda’s_ gift to us.”

“Roan again.” Bellamy looks at his boots.

“We’re going to have to do another thing together. Just you and I.”

* * *

“Carl Emerson, Mount Weather security detail.” Clarke says.

The Throne room is packed. She sees her mother in the crowd standing next to Raven, leaning on her. Somewhere, sometime, Clarke has seen this before. The sense of fate and déjà vu almost makes her stumble. Abby’s head is bandaged and her eyes are clear. Clarke turns to them and nods imperceptibly. Abby looks at her with pity or something like it.

Emerson is bound to a pole, his neck locked by an iron collar. He’s bleeding profusely. Whoever was responsible for him since they entered the gates hasn’t been kind to him. No one here would be. She doesn’t care. A rage she thought was banked to a low ember rises in her, roars to life. She steps closer to him so that her face is inches away from his.

Bellamy flanks her to the left, a little behind her, but she can feel him there, telegraphing warmth and support. The room rises around them. Lexa enters and silently sweeps past them without a glance. She mounts the steps to the throne and turns. She holds her hands out and motions for Titus to hand Clarke a blade. The Commander doesn’t even do it herself. So that’s the way it is between them, now. That’s fine with Clarke. She doesn’t care either way. 

Emerson speaks just to her, “I didn't destroy Mount Weather. You did. 381 people—182 men, 173 women, 26 children. Two of them were mine.” They might as well be having a drink together. Or maybe they’re courting one another. They’ll never be free of each other, and that crushes Clarke’s spirit once and for all.

“Cage gave us no choice,” Bellamy speaks up. He knows better, and so does Clarke. There are always choices.

“What's the matter,” Emerson’s taunt is like a cobra, wending its way into Clarke’s soul and curling itself up, its hooded head swaying hypnotically, waiting to strike. “You don't like to be faced with your demons?”  
  
Bellamy steps in front of her and takes the knife, “Let me do it. You don’t have to do this.”

Clarke stares at the floor. One signal from her and Bellamy will finish this. It will be done. Somewhere in this room, Lexa watches her and waits. Out of everyone crowded in there for this spectacle, she’s the only one Clarke feels like a caress on her skin.

Lexa watches her, not the Commander. It’s the Commander who reaches out from across the room to her and brushes across her body, asks her the only question worth asking. The question she asked Lexa just a few nights ago. Is the continuing cycle of blood worth her life? Is she more than who she thinks she is? In the next few seconds, she’ll decide the fate of this one man and her own. It’s astonishingly simple.

“No,” Clarke says it so quietly, it’s as if she’s said nothing. “God, no. This ends here. Bellamy, please step away.”

Clarke raises her eyes to Emerson, “I want you to live forever.”

* * *

Clarke leaves the chaos that erupts in the throne room immediately. She has no interest in seeing what happens next.

She knows Bellamy will be fine, and she knows Abby and Raven can take care of themselves. All her people are capable, strong and safe. She feels like none of those things.

Her rooms are far enough away that its serene quiet resonates in the night, the sky, and the world. There’s only the breeze through the curtains and the setting sun. The ringing in her ears has stopped. She’s entirely alone. She has no idea who she is. She has no idea how long she stands there looking out, unseeing, as the moon rises above the city.

She doesn’t turn at the sound of someone entering. She assumes it’s one of the servants there to offer her food and somewhat to drink. She doesn’t even have the will to dismiss whoever it is or move their hands away as they reach to help her undress. Usually, she would refuse the service, but she’s so outside of herself, so exhausted and sad, that she lets it happen.

The hands are deft and sure. They divest her of her clothes quickly, efficiently until she stands naked. The night is warm. She thinks she imagines lips moving gently against the back of her neck.

Strong hands wrap around her shoulder and under her arm to clasp her firmly to a beating heart, a lean warrior’s body fits itself to her.

“Are you cold?” Warm breath against her ear makes her blood turn to gold. 

Lexa turns Clarke in her arms and holds her still, safe. Lexa takes a blanket and wraps it around them, just as she did by the stream, and rocks her gently just like she did then. She places her lips against Clarke’s cheek and gives her a kiss. It’s chaste and holds a reservoir of barely suppressed laughter. Lexa is waiting for permission. Which is incredible and perverse, considering what she’s already done.

Lexa's body against hers hits Clarke in a rush that leaves her dizzy and gasping. Clarke draws a sharp breath and kisses her. Lexa tastes like starlight—clear, cool, impersonal—a fierce and seductive intelligence made of the whole planet’s conscious— _what the hell._  

Clarke pauses because it’s overwhelming, this can’t be right. Kissing Lexa is like kissing a—Lexa pulls her in again and deepens the kiss, insistent. She tightens the blanket around them, unyielding and kind all at once. There’s a subtle rasp of Lexa’s tongue along her shoulders.

Now she tastes earth and sunlight, and they press together in exhilaration. Lexa laughs into the kiss and Clarke smiles against her, runs her tongue along Lexa’s murmuring nonsensical sounds of pleasure. Clarke turns them so that Lexa’s back is against the wall, and Lexa is hers after such a long time—no one else’s, just like this.

This woman belongs to Clarke. She can't shove any of her feelings away, this time. Clarke’s fingers slide up into Lexa’s hair, keeping her close. Clarke feels an insistent, brutal need climb up her spine and she shivers, breaking the kiss when she feels wetness against her cheek. “Lexa, what—“

Lexa, through her joy and disbelief, is crying. Clarke stares at her, slightly bewildered—this is new—and with a gentle hand wipes her tears away.

“I came to see if you were well,” Lexa says. She waits until she knows she’s being listened to and repeats it.

Instead of answering, Clarke kisses her again, and brings Lexa’s hand up to her own face, inviting her to explore, giving Lexa free rein to do whatever she pleases.

Graceful, sword calloused fingers trace over her face, mapping, memorizing. And then Clarke realizes what she’s been told. It penetrates her basic, instinctual pulse, her overheated mind, and emotions, the insanely hot physical response that’s making her lose her bearings. She has no idea what to do with Lexa's carefulness.

She wants to mark, take, and claim— and Lexa says that. For the first time in what seems like forever, Clarke really laughs. Fuck. This woman will kill her. 

“You swore fealty to me,” she smiles just against the corner of Lexa’s mouth, places a kiss there and then smoothes her tongue over the spot. Lexa moans softly and Clarke wants—desire cascades through her. Lexa’s hand travels up her inner thigh and hovers, the light sheen of sweat, the friction of their bodies against one another is—she’s naked and Lexa is fully clothed and Lexa’s hand is—

“LADIES.”

“Oh jeez, guys. Sorry.”

Bellamy and Roan have sailed into the room, with Raven just behind them. “Oops.”

Lexa turns with a growl and shields Clarke with her body. How chivalrous. “What.” She’s seething but doing a very good job of being polite.

“Does anyone knock in this goddamn place?” Clarke mutters. “Raven, please tell me my mother is nowhere near you all?”

“Just us, babe.” 

“Yes, please carry on,” Roan nods.

“We’ll make it quick. There are celebrations all over the city. Abby’s fending off some really wildly inappropriate advances from Roan and a whole bunch of other gentleman suitors—“

“And some women—!” Bellamy nods earnestly, with admiration. “Kane’s gonna be jealous.”

“ _Anyways.”_ Raven rolls her eyes, hard. _“_ We miss you and would like you to join. It’s been a rough, fucked-up day. We already have a head start on you with the drinking. But it’s cool. You guys look busy?”

The three of them fall silent and stare at the two girls like baby owls.

Clarke tugs Lexa around to face her and the affection she sees in Lexa's eyes—there’s so much more to it, but the sweetness makes her tremble.

“Let’s celebrate with your friends. I want to know them.” Lexa murmurs. They have time.

“Okay,” Clarke says. Her friends are morons. She leans in and kisses Lexa one more time on the other corner of her mouth because she can. “Okay.”


	9. Chapter 9

Tomorrow is Ascension Day. Emerson is set free in a territory even  _Azgeda_  leaves alone.

Raven and the rest of them find the largest celebration easily enough; the din and music can be heard for miles. Abby's in the courtyard, right where they left her, surrounded by a growing group of high-ranking men and women. She soaks in the attention, gorgeous in the candlelight, her head injury healed and her eyes bright again.

Raven stares at her, wide-eyed. She takes a deep, slow breath, and notices her heart rate is slightly berserk. Raven straightens and asks Bellamy to get her a drink. Abby’s glowing and relaxed, Her hair is a lustrous honey-dark brown, with gold-auburn highlights, and she wears it down framing an extraordinarily beautiful face. The lean, expansive strength in her body—it’s unconscious ease and Abby’s expressive brown eyes are hot with a sharp, amused intelligence. Raven also wonders how many ways she can describe the woman.

Abby glances over at her and her whole body flushes. Abby winks at her (and God, Raven literally might die) before going back to the woman she’s talking to. Abby’s cut into Raven. Raven’s inebriated brain doesn’t put it in anything but blunt terms: Abby’s been inside of her already. She makes herself blush and that's— 

She's not a jealous person, really. This new silicon element in her body is doing strange things to her, but what she does know is that her increased energy, enhanced pleasure receptors, and greater pleasure-seeking behavior also heighten her attraction to Abby—ecstasy resulting from that one kiss, and also the one after that. 

The thought of Abby with anyone else makes her literally stupid. It's the firelight. It's—

“Hey now.” Bellamy grabs her by her shirt and says, “Come help.”

Even slightly cross-eyed and stunned (Abby just fucking winked at her) Raven notices Grounders giving Bellamy disturbing and cruel looks, and really, never mind whatever whirlwind she’s in, Bellamy's not safe.

“Clarke, stay with us. We’re going to get something to drink.”

“All of us?” Clarke asks, about 100% done since she and Lexa were interrupted. “Really?”

Raven glares at her. Clarke glances around, into the dark and shifting crowd, eyes Bellamy, and clues in about a minute later. “Right. Coming with.” 

Raven and Bellamy head off with Roan. Clarke stays a moment to ask if Lexa will follow. Lexa takes her sleeve and points up. Besides the torches and candles, delicate fairy lights have been strung up all across the vast, open space. Clarke is charmed; the lights are alive. It’s the bioluminescent butterflies.

Lexa, very close beside her, leans down and smiles. Her mouth traces Clarke’s temple as she says, “We let them go at dawn.” 

Lexa straightens and nods at Clarke just as Titus glides over and bows.

Clarke saw an inhuman quality when she was fighting with Roan—an impossible elevation and entwining of these two aspects. There's Lexa and there's the Commander.  She can be seamless when she wants to, remote, her unquestioned position as a near-deity is inborn and practical. It has to be.

She can allow debate, but she can’t allow disobedience. Not without a trial by combat. Clarke wonders how many she’s endured. How many times she’s had to prove herself publicly. And then she remembers Gustus— what her people will do for her; how far they’ll go to protect her. Their fealty and love are hers by right of combat. Clarke will never truly understand it. But she’s beginning to understand the fealty oath in a way she never has before. 

Titus motions for drinks to be brought, and food. He leads Lexa away from Clarke to the elevated platform and toasts the Commander and the night. The whole population does. Much like the day of Lexa and Roan’s fight, the whole city’s turned out—and all the surrounding settlements.

Titus has three ambassadors in tow; one of them looks like he wants to flat out slug Lexa. Clarke blinks at him—she’s only seen this kind of disdain on the Ice Nation’s ambassador’s face that day in the throne room. She’s aware, as they separate, that Lexa transforms into a personality both remote and unreachable—her whole manner and body language changes.

Clarke wonders how she's been allowed to see so much when Lexa's expressive emerald eyes are troubled, soft, shy. Her vulnerability is layered with myriad shifting moods. It occurs to Clarke that it's not strictly allowed because of her position.

Maybe in training when she was young, maybe on battlefields and their aftermath—Anya, Costia, Indra—they know more of this woman than she does.

Lexa is all grace when she needs to be. She shares from her own plate before enjoying what’s been given to her. She looks down the long flight of steps to where her people, all the Clans except  _Skaikru_ , are represented—dancing and mingling with more grace than Clarke has ever credited Grounders with. Lexa absently caresses the back of her own neck and her eyes go unfocused as she barely listens to her unwanted company. 

Clarke runs to catch up. She reaches out to hold Raven’s hand, and they continue to dart through the crowd. 

The drink issue gets solved when servants sweep through with more trays of food and some very strong, hard liquor.

Roan turns to Raven and nods lightly. He’s noticed the mood of the people who have seen Bellamy—the undisguised bitterness and hatred. He tilts his head, almost imperceptibly and hands her a dagger with her cup. In the press of bodies, it goes unnoticed. Another blade goes to Clarke.

No weapons are allowed near the Commander. No weapons at celebrations. Raven slips it into her brace. She takes the tie off her hair and shakes it out; because she’s nervous, off-balance, slightly tipsy, doesn’t really want to deal with potential Bellamy drama and wants to get Abby as turned on as she is. 

"Bell’s usually a little more on point,” she says to Roan. Roan shrugs as if to say  _we’ll see how he does_. 

This night has been strange from the outset. Clarke realizes early on that this is a night when Lexa feels like drinking. The wine and liquor flow without pause and Lexa’s drinking seriously. Clarke’s seen it in herself, Raven, Bellamy, and Roan; even her mother and Marcus on Unity Day; but never Lexa or any of her seconds at court. It's not done. Or not to excess.

Roan notices her unease, knows why and where it comes from and says softly, “Costia died on this day. Her head was delivered to the Commander’s chambers as she slept.”

Clarke whips around and stares at him, reeling. Roan is playing at being at this party purely for enjoyment. She realizes he's there to protect Lexa.

“Costia was a good fighter, no doubt, not a _Natblida_ butstill Lexa’s equal. Luna, too.” Roan gives nothing else away; he’s merely passing along information. 

Raven flanks them and protects Bellamy by edging herself closer to Abby. From where she is, Raven keeps a clear sightline to Roan, Clarke, and Bellamy. Abby just gazes at her while continuing an easy conversation with the group around her, but her eyes never waver, they hardly blink, and Raven’s body reacts again in a way that’s staggering. She forgets herself, forgets Bellamy, and steps between Abby and the woman who’s talking to her.

“Enjoying yourself?” Abby asks.

“Babysitting Bellamy? Sure,” Raven says, brushing closer.

Abby’s hand comes up to her chest, stopping her. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Yes. Looks like.” Raven lowers her voice; “You haven’t taken your eyes off me since I got here.”

“No?” Abby asks, more sharply than she probably meant, "I wasn't aware." 

Raven spares a dismissive glance at the woman she’s interrupted and the lingering group surrounding them. They all get the hint, but the woman reacts very poorly and put out. Raven swears to God that she hopes she tries something—she’s that aggravated—but the woman disappears into the night. 

Raven hardly cares that Abby's beginning to get very pissed off, and there’s that pretty fantastic feeling of having all of Abby's attention on her again, the way her breathing goes very quiet. Raven loves Abby's control.

"Is it my leg?"

Abby’s face falls and she doesn’t even bother to hide it.

Her eyes narrow and she says, “Actually, no. What I said to you, what I asked you to do for me was wait until I knew more. I wanted us to explore your options together. Because we can do anything _together_ —and we have,“ she’s angry she has to remind Raven of this one perfect thing they managed together, of all the times Raven called her out for the same kind of stubborn, asinine behavior she sees in her, the angrier she gets the more calm she becomes, it’s infuriating, “no one else could have managed the dropship or come up with a way to find Clarke or Finn or any of it. We did that, together, on the Ark. No one else did. I trusted you. But you know what your problem is? You’re impatient, arrogant and young, Raven.  _So young_.”

Raven lowers her eyes, willing herself not to press any further. She does it quickly, so Abby doesn’t see the heartache tearing through her. “Really? That’s what you think of me—you all thought you had an idea about how to make me feel better. You made me feel useless until you decided how I could be useful.”

She fixes Abby with a hurt, wounded stare and repeats, “You think I'm too young. You were married at my age.” 

That does it. 

“I’m not doing this. I’m not doing this with you,” Abby says, coolly. 

“Abby—” Raven begins and stops. She watches Abby walk away towards Clarke and the others, leaving her seething and mortified.

“What is he doing here?” A thick, raucous voice bellows above the rest.

Titus turns and squints into the crowd. He descends the platform; his priest’s cloak billowing around him. Lexa’s head snaps up. She gestures for the people around her to quiet. Titus has never raised his voice in anger, maybe distress and anxiety, but not anger. This is pure bafflement and horror. The throng hushes and parts before him as he strides directly towards Bellamy.

Clarke and Abby place themselves in between Titus and Bellamy. Raven follows Titus through the wake of shocked guests. Every person she can see is turning to look at Bellamy with horror and disgust. One by one, they become a unified front—this could become a fighting host at any moment, and she saw the Grounders gather the night Finn was sacrificed. They all did.

“How can this be?” Titus stops and swings back towards Lexa. Disbelief and agony shade his question, he sounds like a hurt child, “ _Heda_ , we agreed.”

Lexa’s response is quiet, but it carries, “Blood Must Not Have Blood. All are welcome tonight. This is not the time.” The last part holds a warning no one misses.

Titus shakes his head, standing taller than the rest, disbelieving, “You’d welcome him here? On this day? Did you manage the Coalition by yourself? Did I do nothing?”

Indra yells back, she’s as drunk as anyone, “If there’s one person who can question the Commander; it would be me. I was there. I looked into his eyes. I have welcomed Bellamy, as well. Stand away.” 

Someone shouts, “Where would your people be without our protection? You killed my mother, my brother. They were all there at  _Hakeldama_ ”

Bellamy tenses and sobers up very quickly behind Clarke. Abby puts her hand on the small of his back. Bellamy’s eyes are—Raven can’t even look at him, but she watches Titus curl himself up in anguish. “Not on this day,  _Heda_. God help you.”

Clarke has never seen Lexa forget herself, but she does now. Lexa shouts back, “You stand side by side with  _Azgeda_. Of all gathered here, I know exactly what day this is and what occurred. King Roan is here. Titus—would question this last piece of it? This last offering?”

“—I was the one who raised you up—trained you—“ Titus bellows.

Clarke can see Lexa fighting herself, fighting for calm. She manages it, barely. She calls for silence and is obeyed immediately. “I trained myself, Titus, from the moment after I won the Conclave. It was never you,” she says in a much more reasonable tone.

Titus goes purple, apoplectic, “What am I to you, Commander? What have I done that you would go against my wishes, flaunt this man—“ He points at Clarke without looking at her. He knows exactly where she is; “You bring shame to your lineage. Are we not good enough for you? Is our blood worth less than hers?”

He snarls the last part and Abby moves instinctively to protect Clarke. Which makes Raven want to throw up from anxiety.

Lexa goes deadly silent. And then, in a voice so lethal that it cuts through everything, “Get out.”

Titus is breathing heavily. “You have all the power of this world and you would give it to them, to her.” Hurt and pain roll off him—Raven reels from it. It’s appalling what kind of torture he’s in. She soothes her aching hand over the blade still hidden in her brace; like worry beads.

“On this day,  _Heda_. On this day of all of them. Have you no shame, no memory—“

Lexa shifts forward and hurls her cup at him. It smashes into his face before anyone even knew it was thrown. Titus reels back and holds his hand to his eye, blood dripping down his arm.

“Titus,” Indra approaches him now, her voice pitched to him only, “Do not say it. Do not say her name. I’m begging you. Not now.”

Indra turns to Abby and Raven, “Get him out. Get him away from here. Octavia,” Octavia appears out of nowhere, “Take your brother to my quarters. Stay there. Do not leave alone, stay put with him until I come.”

They do. As one, they take the suddenly limp and still raving Titus by either arm and drag him through to the open gate. Bellamy and Octavia disappear. Raven almost passes out. She can’t be this close to Titus. It’s overwhelming; the waves of distress coming off of him are making her ache, nausea overwhelms her. She wants to end him. Abby just has to look at her once to see the clear, homicidal impulse and she wrenches him away from her. “Follow us—and protect my

“Follow us—and protect my back,” she says to Raven,” but don’t you dare touch him.”

“Take him.” Lexa snarls at the guards surrounding her.

Titus indicates “no”. Lexa hurtles down the steps and hits him in the face. The silence that follows is haunting.

“Say her name, Priest. Do it. I’ll enjoy killing you.” 

Clarke protests without thinking. The unhinged look Lexa gives her freezes her blood. This is not a warrior’s warning. This is a woman who lost her lover and is being reminded of her duty in the worst possible way. Titus is calling down every time Lexa has been told,  _“Love is Weakness”_  in her life and he’s ripping her to shreds. Clarke realizes her mistake immediately. In everything but this, they’re equals. This isn’t anything Clarke can help her with.

“Did Costia die for nothing?”

The flash of light doesn’t come from Lexa. Raven’s blade sails through the crowd and rips through Titus’ throat, just missing the jugular. Abby shrieks into her hand and throws Clarke behind her. The wound is serious, but not terminal, not if he doesn’t bleed out, but Abby’s not looking at Titus, she’s looking at Raven like she's never seen her before—and Raven stares down at her hand as if she doesn’t recognize it.

Indra leaps on Titus to cover the wound with anything she can. He’s down on his knees when she and Roan get it under control. The butchery just looks atrocious; the cobblestones surrounding him are slick with his blood, but it's a surface graze. Abby kneels down and tends to him before giving him over to Indra again. It’s manageable, not fatal.

“Oh God,” Lexa says slowly, “God, God, God.”

Clarke and Roan take Lexa forcibly through the remnants of the shocked population and away. Titus is lifted from Abby’s arms and carried towards the Tower, as well. She’s left kneeling in a pool of blood. Raven approaches her cautiously, reaching out to her.

Abby holds up the bloodied clothes in her hands. She picks herself up and thrusts them at Raven without a word, and then follows the others to the Center of the City.

Raven's left alone. She watches countless, luminous, small, delicate creatures through threatening tears; the butterflies above her remain undisturbed by anything below them. They blink in and out—small beacons of light and transformation—and Raven sighs. She has no idea what to do.

* * *

A small group of military and political personages gathers outside of Lexa’s outer chambers. Abby, who caught up to Clarke within minutes, hesitates with her on the edge of the crowd. They turn as one when Clarke approaches, falling into pointed silence.

Once again, Clarke is struck by the relative sophistication of Polis society. This is a pastiche of archaic low-tech, high medieval court, and she doesn’t know, maybe some Visigoth cultural and martial hierarchies. She doesn’t, can’t play this game at all without Roan by her side. She’s surprised she hasn’t been assassinated or poisoned in her sleep, to be honest—if just for her behavior since coming here against her will.

She understands the haunting anguish in Lexa’s expression, the loneliness. They can talk about the betrayals between them now; it’s a start.

“You realize,” Abby says softly to her, “that everything from this moment forward is between you and Lexa only.”

Abby saw the look in Lexa’s eyes as well. She’s astute, calculated and ruthless when she wants something, like the continuance of the human race— _I chose to make sure we deserve to stay alive_. Clarke’s learned basic backroom maneuvers from her. “Do not, under any circumstances get in between those two. Not yet.”

Clarke can’t imagine how much humility that takes Abby to say. Abby’s facial expressions in Lexa’s presence have been priceless. Clarke smiles and shrugs—taking her mother’s hand in her own, “Too late. I exist, so I’m a problem.” 

Wide bronze doors open in the stone walls and a healer carrying a bowl of bloodied water and clothes of used poultice slips out. Aides hurry to his side to take the instruments from him and blend back into the shadows.

Abby’s eyes narrow slightly. “That won’t do it,” she mutters, “I saw the wound.”

Clarke nods at her once in understanding and looks around the room. When she see’s Roan’s men she tugs at Abby's sleeve and they slip through the elite.

* * *

“You’re here to apologize,” Abby says, leaning against the window looking out into the night. She doesn’t turn around.

“Yes,” Raven says, simply. “I was being an asshole.”

“A murderous asshole."

It upset you, I’m sorry,” Raven says. She’s had an hour to come down from the adrenaline. It’s left her hollow and restless. “I actually thought you might be here with someone. I’m surprised you’re not.” That last bit comes out sounding a little too bitchy even for her.

Abby ignores that. She should.

“Why you?” Abby murmurs and stays where she is, still gazing out, “Where did you learn to throw a knife with that amount of accuracy? That’s not you. And you haven’t trained with Lincoln or Octavia long enough.”

“I missed.” Raven says, “It wasn’t a kill shot.” 

She waits for Abby to respond, to do something, anything, and then she says, “How do you know I haven’t trai—“ 

“I always know where you are.” Abby murmurs.

The next thing she knows, Abby’s easing Raven up against the wall. She takes Raven’s face in her hands, “What else is the chip doing to you?“

“It was—” Raven kind of gasps and then closes her eyes because Abby is kissing her. The kiss is slow and searching, gentle—with a gravity to it that hasn’t been there before. Abby pulls back slightly, and Raven’s eyes flutter open after some time.

“What was that for?” she whispers.

“Titus will live,” Abby says, “I was with him initially. He’s sleeping now. Lexa, Roan and Clarke are deciding what to do.”

“Bellamy’s going back to Arkadia?”

“We might all have to. Titus is the least of our problems,” Abby kisses her again, and Raven loses track of what they're talking about. “He’s the only one openly against her—the only one who can be or will. But it’s pretty obvious the Coalition is fracturing. They stopped a riot after we left. Clans are calling for blood. We either offer Bellamy up like we did with Finn,” Abby watches for a reaction, when none is forthcoming she kisses Raven again, just barely and says, “Or we offer up Pike.” 

Abby steps back and soothes her hands over Raven’s shoulders. “They’re deciding what to do with you. Lexa wants you here for a reason. Do you know why that is?” 

Raven shakes her head no. There’s something just at the edge of her awareness, something important. Abby waits.

"I want to be with you.” Raven hesitates before reaching up to trace Abby's jaw.

"We're having two different conversations." Abby smiles softly.

It’s Raven who comes to herself first. “Abby, kiss me again.” 

She does.

Abby’s asking her for her consent. This kiss isn’t an assault or playful like it’s been before. This is quiet with the whole world behind it, waiting.

Her hand shifts from the small of Raven’s back to the bottom of her shirt, which she lifts off of her with practiced ease, a little shy. “Where have you gone, Raven?” Abby asks her quietly in a distracted, wondering tone. “I need all of you.”

Raven stops her and raises Abby’s face between her hands so she can look at her.

“I’m right here,” she answers, not understanding.

Abby covers Raven’s hands with hers, and then slides them down between their bodies and leans back just looking at their entwined fingers, tracing the pad of her thumbs over them. She shakes her head slowly, “Raven, honey—“ 

That endearment. The effect it has on Raven is indescribable. “Abby. Please, just touch me. _”_

“God, of course. You’re beautiful,” Abby murmurs—she’s guiding her gently to the bed and on to her back, and when she settles her there, Abby kneels in front of her and has her out of her brace. Abby runs her hand up her leg and then her torso, over her ribs, and her chin, before cupping her face.

“You are just so—” Abby starts to say.

“Abby,” they’re breathing the same air, “I’m—I need this—“

Abby strokes her, calming her—like she needs settling—she traces her tongue along Raven’s lips, draws her out, pulls away when Raven chases her mouth with hers, “I’m losing you. Everyday. Since you followed Jaha," Abby holds her still, “There’s a part of you that’s—“

“Not now.” Raven snaps. She can’t help it, “ _Any other time_  but right now, Okay?”

For a second Raven thinks she's going to be left alone and the openness that is between them becomes remote, untouchable; a shadow Raven wants to chase down and drag back into the light. Raven misses her desperately as soon as Abby retreats and she bites down hard on her own lip to shut herself the hell up. Raven is pretty sure she’s about to get her ass handed to her, or at least she’ll be thrown out of the room.

She assumes it because really, what else could go wrong tonight, and when Abby continues to be unresponsive she starts to look around for her shirt, “Okay, I’ll just go. All right?” 

Abby’s suddenly above her staring at her with intense concentration, pressing her down, still gently—reminding her that Abby’s doing exactly what she wants despite or because of whatever’s still between them from earlier and just now—it’s hot as hell—and Raven arches with pleasure when she reaches up thru Raven’s hair and tangles it in her hands—a little rougher than necessary.

Abby looks remote, entirely removed, and Raven witnessed the shock lashing. She saw the look in her eyes the moment before she slapped her. This is the same.

“Is this how you want to do this?” 

Raven will say yes to absolutely anything. She can’t really keep it together at all. 

“What would you have done if I was with someone else right now. Someone from tonight?” 

Raven shifts under her and begins to place slow, wet open-mouthed kisses wherever she can reach Abby’s skin. She lifts her hips—

“Answer me.” Abby bites down on her shoulder.

“Oh,” Raven says, when the mark of her teeth literally has her shivering, “I would have joined you.”

“Mm,” Abby breathes in her ear. “Would you have preferred a man or a woman?”

Oh. Ok. They’re playing. Wow? Abby’s actually being kind of adorable and patient and waiting for Raven to get a clue. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Raven tries to find some traction, tries not to go shy. She's half naked and Abby still has all her clothes on. It doesn’t work. It just sends her deeper into free fall. “As long as you were there,” she just smiles, relaxing into wherever Abby’s going with her, taking another deep breath and closing her eyes. “Abby. I love this. Keep talking.” 

“I want you, afterward. When I know you’ve been with someone.”

This suddenly becomes the hottest fucking thing Raven can remember doing. Her fantasies about Abby have always been pretty much exactly that, and it’s happened too many times to count. Abby's started with one of the most mundane, everyday things about their experiences together. It's not particularly out there in the slightest, or very erotic.

As far as fantasies go, it's not mindblowing or very interesting—and Abby knows  _exactly_  what she's doing by suggesting it might be. Abby always just strolls in, and she always has impeccable timing, after Raven’s done with whomever and it’s never been a huge deal at all.

Abby makes herself at home. It’s not hard to imagine her walking in just a little bit earlier. It’s happened so often, and things are usually so easy between them that half the time that’s the one thought that finally gets Raven off really hard.

“I love seeing you afterward. Raven, your body—“ Abby draws her mouth and teeth and tongue over every bit of Raven’s skin she can reach—it's driving Raven out of her mind—and she tells Raven things she had no idea Abby thought about, but Raven has. She remembers how she's performed for Abby, consciously or not. “I want to watch. You can have anyone you want and then you come for me. Just me.” 

Raven’s breathing harder, and then when Abby traces her hands down over her chest and under her bra—her thumb slipping over the side of her breast—she almost cries.

“Yes, like that,” Abby says, looking up at her.

She pulls the fabric down farther,  trapping Raven’s arms so that she’s slightly helpless and drags her tongue, wet and warm, across her nipple.

Abby is furious with her. Furious that they waited so long, furious at Raven’s behavior earlier, furious over her jealousy and then for placing herself in danger. But that’s nothing at all compared to what Raven can’t answer for her. The real question that Abby is asking her.

Raven wants to know where those memories have gone, as well. She’s scared and Abby keeps at her, keeps asking her questions but— 

”Tell me how you—”

“Hard,” she says, closing her eyes and struggling against the makeshift restraint.

She manages to wrap one hand in Abby’s hair while tracing her other hand down her face, her cheekbones, gliding across her soft lips. Abby sucks on her fingers—that’s quickly going to become something Raven’s responds to ridiculously—no one has ever made her feel this out of control in her entire life—and Abby just slips her fingers in her mouth.

Raven's eyes pretty much roll back in her head and she literally swoons, because her fingers are apparently directly connected to—and oh, my god she's so wet—Abby rises above Raven and watches her struggle to catch her breath; she watches Raven and smiles. She bends down and bites at Raven's nipple sharply, tugging it between her teeth and rolling it on her tongue before soothing it with her whole mouth. Abby’s good at this. And she does it over and over.

She takes her time, slowing everything down, kissing her into the pleasure of  _them_  so that it permeates every cell, every part of her body.

Abby explores every inch of Raven, small sounds escaping her, dragging her tongue around Raven's breasts, kissing her and noting her reactions, every sigh, every moan, until Raven is so overwhelmed she’s breathing out Abby’s name over and over.

Abby pulls back a little and asks, “You’re going to come from this, aren’t you?”

Raven doesn’t know what the fuck is happening to her but her ability to answer is practically zero. Abby kisses her more deeply than before if that's even possible.

“I would do this all night if you ask.” 

Raven slips her fingers underneath the thin cotton of her underwear and begins to stroke herself. The way Abby has her it’s literally the only thing she can do and she’s about to lose her mind because she can’t reach any part of her she’s desperate to touch. Abby won’t let her.

“Let me come, Abby. Please.” 

“Ask again.” Warm breath caresses Raven face. Abby sighs against her, waiting.

“Abby.” Raven turns her head and whispers her need into her ear, just for her. Just for Abby and the night to hear.

Abby slips Raven’s bra off of her and frees her hands. She watches Raven intently, and then Raven hooks her hands underneath Abby’s shirt and pulls it off. Raven skims her hand down her side and underneath the waist of Abby’s pants.

“Off.” Raven murmurs.

Abby pops her top button, “Don’t stop touching yourself and only come when I say.”

Raven’s nods and breaths sharply through her nose; starting up again as slowly as she can manage, and never breaking eye contact with Abby, who—now naked— shifts back on to the bed and straddles Raven.

“So beautiful.” Abby breathes out, sweeping her hands down and half-smiling in her amazement. Raven realizes with a shiver down her spine that Abby's as astonished as she is. Neither of them can believe their good luck. Raven smiles back at her and holds on to that joy, anchors herself in Abby’s warmth.

Raven, after a long moment of just  _looking_ , manages to say, "Keep watching me. I want to do this for you.”

Abby laughs, and places her hand over Raven's heart, right around the expanse of her chest—it's gloriously warm and wet where Abby’s tongue and mouth have been. She traces the underside of her breasts and her fingers slip over her nipples. Raven loves sex, she absolutely loves it, but no one has ever made her come just from a touch, or talking, or— “I did this to you,“ Abby says quietly, a little triumphant.

Raven's hips snap up sharply and her hands go around Abby’s waist like it’s the only thing holding her to the earth, to herself, what little of her is left. It’s a frighteningly helpless reaction, and she feels need and desire on a level she didn’t even know anything about “Oh god—“

“Shhhh. It’s going to be everything you want. You’re amazing, sweetheart.”

Abby must know that Raven can barely hold it together because she stretches herself out over Raven’s overheated body. She rolls them over and lets Raven rest on her. Raven drops her forehead to Abby’s and kisses her slow and deep.

“Abby,” she gasps, “You’re right. I'm going to come.”

Raven keeps shivering—it’s hot in the room. Raven is young and very, very strong, but she's never experienced anything like this, never seen Abby like this; she’s  _wanted this_ —Abby’s about to make her come apart entirely. Sex has always been fun, always a pleasure. She likes it rough and soft, however really. But the reality is that Raven’s trembling for Abby; she’s so ready to take or be taken that she’s losing control of her body.

Abby rakes her hand through Raven’s hair; she brings Raven’s head down and her mouth to her ear and says as calmly and as clearly as she can, “You’re going to put your hands on me, baby. I need to feel you. I need you. Right now. You need to do this for me, all right?”

Raven’s eyes widen and she curses under her breath. She spreads Abby’s legs, balancing above her. Her hand glides up along her inner thighs, and she enters her in one smooth, firm and powerful stroke.

Abby opens even more and gasps into Raven's mouth sucks her tongue and clasps her arms around Raven.

She hopes that what she sees in Abby’s eyes is something she can take with her forever, even if this is the only time they do this. Abby leans up and holds Raven’s face in her hands and kisses her, and then she can’t anymore because the slow build of what Raven is doing to her is—she arches her back and moves with and against her hand.

Raven curls her fingers and takes her and God, it's the most amazing thing. Abby is talking to her, deliberately and quietly, telling her in explicit detail exactly what she’s doing to her. Her eyes drift shut and she keeps kissing Abby as she enters her again, hard and measureless.

Their tongue strokes through each breath they exchange. Raven fucks Abby slowly as Abby. Raven centers herself by setting an ad unhurried pace as she can. She wants this to last. With each thrust, Abby’s body reacts on its own. The sheen of sweat between them allows Raven to glide and explore, with her tongue, mouth, and with her other hand. 

She takes Abby’s nipple between her lips and tugs at it, bites it, and hits a rhythm that causes Abby to grip her hair and slip a hand down to cup Raven’s ass, pulling at her. Abby doesn’t stop whispering her desires into Raven’s ear—it’s just that now it’s unintelligible. Her voice is hoarse and pleading.

Raven makes a list. She’s making the longest list, one item at a time every time she curls her fingers and hits a spot that Abby responds to violently even at the excruciatingly patient pace she’s set. The pad of Raven’s thumb swipes across Abby’s clit, and Abby grips her so hard she’s going to bruise. She’s not talking anymore; her breath is ragged. 

Abby’s close—she can feel the slow build against her fingers and her heart, where it beats against Abby’s— trying its best not to stop completely—and Raven begins to talk back to her, softly, answering every request with her own.

Abby’s eyes roam her face as she breaks apart. Raven’s laugh, low on her throat, sets Abby off. She moans as Abby falls over the edge and comes against her for what seems like forever, arching off the bed and sliding her arms tighter around Raven’s flexed shoulders, the other hand wound through dark, damp hair, riding Raven’s hand, coating her thighs with slick heat, seeking out her mouth again in a kiss.

She shares her uncontrolled, ecstatic unraveling with Raven. Raven can only hold her and bring her through it until Abby’s collapsed against her, very literally spent.

Raven holds her, stroking her back, rocking her gently and staying in her, murmuring into her neck while the aftershocks fade. They remain like that for a while trading slow, aimless kisses until Raven reluctantly starts to pull her hand from between Abby’s thighs.

“Stay,” Abby breaths. 

Raven does for a while longer, drawing her tongue unhurriedly along Abby’s jawline and then brings her hand up to her mouth to taste her fingers; to taste Abby. Abby watches fascinated and turned on again. She kisses the inside of Raven’s wrist and takes her palm in hers, brings it to her own mouth, tastes herself.  

“You scare the shit out of me, Abby.” 

That gets a laugh; a real, delighted one. Raven beams while Abby collapses back onto the furs they haven’t even bothered to get under yet. Abby’s still laughing as she pulls back the covers and beckons Raven to do the same, “Come here.” 

The combination of the furs against her already incredibly over sensitive skin and Abby taking her into her arms, threading her hand through her hair reminds her body that she wants more—not her mind, because that part of her is so far gone it might as well not exist—and that singular want sends her into a near agony. Her hips are moving despite herself, trying to find purchase against Abby.

Abby’s still laughing as she kisses her and looks at Raven with a mischievous kind of fondness. “I could talk you through it, or you could let me help you.”

Raven’s eye-roll is cut short. She yelps when Abby pulls her up so fast that Raven’s fully on top of her again—now Raven’s laughing—and they're grinning stupidly at each other—and Abby slides her hand between them, opening Raven’s legs with her knees.

Her fingers stroke through Raven’s thick warm folds, just inside. Raven’s eyes flutter closed and she half-groans, half-smiles in pure relief. She melts into Abby when sure fingers circle her clit. Raven spreads her legs further and thrusts her hips down onto Abby’s hand. Three fingers fill her; her response fills the room.

She pushes herself up so she can fuck Abby’s hand. Abby finds the right angle and Raven is so wound tight she almost comes without warning and has to stop suddenly to catch herself and get herself under control. She’s panting, sweat drips down her cheek, and covers her neck. Abby wipes it away and waits for Raven to come back a little from how far out on the edge she is. “Not yet,” Raven manages to get out, “Not yet. I don’t want to yet.”

Abby nods, “Okay,” and slips her hand out. Even how gently she does it, Raven whimpers with the loss.

“Okay.” She rolls Raven under her and shoves the furs down to her waist, encircles Raven’s wrists and brings them underneath the small of Raven’s back, presses Raven into the bed and kisses her. “Keep them there, as long as you can.”

Abby doesn’t let her wrists go as she takes one pebbled, taut nipple in her mouth and sucks lightly until Raven starts to move, slanting up into her. Abby makes love to her mercilessly, taking one breast and then the other into her mouth, teasing them, alternating between them until Raven is wild.

Abby lowers herself further, trailing her mouth and tongue over long stretches of Raven’s skin, over her toned stomach, between her strong thighs and up. She’s not lingering anywhere. Abby’s silently and inexorably claiming every part of Raven she can.

When Raven feels her settle between her legs; her warm, rough tongue flattened against her center, her hands stretching up Raven’s body to cup her breasts and swipe her thumbs over her nipples—she can’t remember what Abby’s asked her to do—she loses language. Her hands fly into Abby’s hair, wrenching at it, mindless of Abby’s pain threshold. Her hips move frantically and she pushes her cunt into Abby’s tongue and Abby takes her in, lets go of her carefully maintained control and fucks her with everything; her tongue and fingers, drinks all of her in, and keeps doing it.

Raven comes so violently and suddenly; the orgasm tears through her so hard she jackknifes off the bed, and honest to God loses consciousness for a few seconds—pleasure pouring through her in waves—breaking her apart.

It must take a while for Raven to come to herself. She vaguely remembers Abby gathering her against her as she leans back against the headboard and pulling the covers back over both of them, stroking through her hair.

Raven’s head rests against Abby’s chest, her arms draped over her supple back, one leg thrown over Abby’s hip; she’s drifting listening to Abby’s steady heartbeat, and the soft, contented, intermittent sounds Abby makes in the back of her throat.

Having her hair stroked is utter heaven; she’s never had anyone do it and she says as much. Abby’s hand stills for a moment and then starts up again.

“That’s ridiculous. Your hair is—“ Abby laughs softly, “Everything about you is stunning, Raven. You should get used to it.”

“Already am.” Raven smiles into Abby’s chest. She kisses the underside of her breast.

“Aha. There she is. Welcome back.” Abby swats her ass.

“Did I hurt you?” Raven sobers.

Abby smiles and shakes her head. She reaches over and takes something in her hand and holds it up. “Do you remember me taking this off you? It’s beautiful; you should wear it outside your shirt more often. But it would have cut both of us.”

It’s the necklace Finn made Raven. Abby’s expression goes serious, “I mean if you’re into that we can talk—“

“You’re still wearing your wedding ring.” Raven doesn’t react to Finn’s name. If Abby notices, she doesn’t say anything. Raven traces the band of platinum gold. 

“I am.”

“Do you remember your first kiss?” 

“Mmhm. It was—“

Raven sits up abruptly. She doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t know why she asked. More importantly, she’s shocked once again that she can’t remember her first kiss with Finn. She already knew that, that she’s losing certain memories, but now she’s not remembering the loss.

“Hey. Hey, Raven,” Abby sits up and touches her cheek, cups her jaw and turns Raven’s face to look at her, “We don’t have to talk about that now, okay?”

Raven stares at her and tries desperately to calm the fuck down. Abby sees something in her eyes that keeps her tone at soothing and calm, “Look.”

Abby brings her ring finger up to her mouth and wets it. She works the ring off and holds it up for Raven to see and then very carefully puts it next to Raven’s necklace beside the bed.

Something in Raven crumbles.

“Abby, no. I would never ask you to do that. Not for me.” Before Abby can react Raven says, “Abby you have to help me. I can’t remember Finn.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuck canon

Raven sprawls entangled in Abby’s arms, her comforting heat. Her breathing is steady and deep.

The stars are bright and unwavering against low clouds skidding across a spring moon. The moonlight casts long, stark shadows, highlighting the planes of Abby's face, Raven trails her fingers along Abby's neck, along her own and down between her breasts. She presses a warm palm over the other woman's heart.

They’re wrapped in sheets and furs, the breeze drying the sweat on their bodies. Abby’s thigh rests over Raven’s hip. The last few hours have been a waking dream, a shared reality she’s wanted longer than she cares to admit. Raven’s consciousness is part of this advanced system of normal range behaviors. It’s more the biological nature of the mind, the vehicle for her mind; and she’s not altogether irrelevant in this equation. She’s fine where she is. 

Raven strokes up and down Abby’s leg and she draws her fingers through Abby’s hair, over her brow, over her earlobe. Abby in sleep is innocent, sated and clear of worry, she looks young and content. Raven’s desire for her, is as instinctual as hunger. 

They used to float in low earth orbit above atmosphere. They were the remnants of the Human race. They lived with three feet of exoskeleton polymer, one century old, between them and the vacuum. Tin hairs, cold solder joints, unstable long-term data storage, polymers in wiring breaking down and shorting, microcircuit fabrication facilities and equipment that needed to be recalibrated and checked.

She’d seen Abby before, everybody knew who Abby was. Abby makes her hungry and fragile. They haven’t been gentle with each other, but they haven’t experienced each other nearly enough, either. It’s there. The promise of what they will become makes Raven's impatient and restless.

Raven raises her head and gazes up at her. She shifts down and rests her cheek against a strong thigh, one hand stroking between Abby’s legs. 

"I want you again," Raven says. New, extraordinary. Ordinary. It's them, and so much more. 

Abby stirs and gently wraps her fingers into the hair at the back of Raven’s neck. She tugs. 

"Come here," she murmurs. 

Raven moves up to rest against her, her hands still smoothing over her hip, her belly. Abby’s attention is so intense and warm, her affection is so apparent—it curls softly up Raven’s spine. There's an insistent tightening low between her thighs.

"Again," she says, quiet and insistent, “I need you again.”

Abby sighs against her shoulder and nods. Raven’s grateful for her tact. It takes a tremendous amount of restraint on her part to table Raven’s minor flip-out earlier. Raven assumes it’s pretty much killing her not to talk about it. They’ll figure it all out soon enough, and her quiet, insistent touch wakes Abby fully.

Raven cradles Abby against her chest, breathes in her scent of sex and wildflowers, and closes her eyes. She's angry and confused every time she can’t remember. She can't ignore the constant pulse of ecstasy since she went into the City of Light. She taps into her baseline heat signature of happiness and genius. And there it is; the old omniscient song of pleasure in her bloodstream. The textural idea of repeating chords integrates itself and the adrenaline of her arousal surges through her, eclipsing everything else. 

She's a bio-organism with a nascent subterranean, synthetic neuropathology. Her body and mind, her memories and pleasures, stripped of meaning and context, are used. The A.L.I.E codec, the promise of it, fashions its own idea of a unified theory for her new, improved selfhood without her participation. It was so easy. All she had to say was— _yes, I can’t carry any of this anymore. I’m done. I’m tired_ —

“Raven,” Abby says, quietly, “this is us. You and me. Do you remember this?” 

Raven smiles. “I’m still me.” What Abby already knows about her is astonishing.

“There is some advantage to taking away my memories.” Raven muses, “every time with you will be like new.”

Abby hesitates; she draws in with slight alarm and a sudden, studied control of her facial expression. But she can’t hide her eyes; Raven can read Abby’s eyes like her own heart.

There’s a flash of concealed anger and concern. Abby starts to say something and thinks better of it.  There's a very rational argument to be had right now, but she realizes she's up against something chaotic and possessive so she settles uneasily back into Raven’s arms instead.

“Then I think you should keep me,” Abby kisses her.

Raven nuzzles into Abby’s neck, gathers her closer, “Ok, and my body is  _really_  sensitive. You could talk to me and I’d come.”

“I think that already happened, a few times.” Abby’s slow smile is open, indulgent and a little smug.

Abby runs her fingers over Raven's warm skin. She outlines her long, lean muscles. She strokes the soft curve of Raven’s breasts, slides her palm over taut breasts while smoothing the flat of her other hand over her abdomen. Raven relaxes under her touch.

Soon, Raven’s main guiding and motivating principle becomes Abby’s response to her, rather than her own. She dips her hand down between Abby’s thighs. 

“God,“ she takes Abby’s earlobe into her mouth and sucks gently, “You’re ready again.”

Abby’s head tilts back in assent. Her skin flushes, her eyes go hazy, and her hips follow the sweep of Raven’s hand. Raven curls one arm behind Abby’s neck and brings her mouth to hers and kisses her. Taking her time; she explores Abby’s face, her neck, the curve and elegance of her shoulders and torso. She wonders idly if Abby really can come again as she sets a slow and firm rhythmic stroke from the base to the top and back again tracing Abby’s heated center. 

She allows it; she allows Abby’s quickening response to become the thing she wants. Her mind, still mortal, is thankfully blank. Abby moans against her throat, taking the sensitive skin there between her teeth and tugging at her and—

“Are you seriously giving me a hickey?”

Abby freezes and her eyes widen slightly. She giggles and she’s blushing. She’s adorable. Raven can’t believe this. Then Abby’s laughing so hard she almost falls out of bed. 

Raven sits up and rubs at her neck and says, “I don’t even know where to start with you right now.” She grumbles. Which makes Abby almost cry she’s laughing so uncontrollably.

Raven looks at her, flummoxed and turned on. Abby rolls her eyes and Raven pounces. She settles into Abby with more force than she’d planned to, uncaring if she becomes clumsy or too demanding, too soon. Abby fading laughter turns into a swift intake of breath and a whispered curse, and she lifts her hips higher, wordlessly asking Raven for more.

Raven teases her fingers along Abby’s clit until she hears, “Inside,” Abby just barely sighs around her building pleasure, her voice calm and rough. Raven enters her, and they both stop breathing altogether. Raven’s three fingers slip inside her, and the sound Abby makes deep in her throat is the most satisfying thing she’s ever heard.

Wetness spreads along the inside of her own thighs. Her teeth and tongue slide over Abby’s lips; the taste of her so new and intoxicating she’s having a hell of a time not passing out from her desire to take her, take her everything all at once. 

Abby leans forward, cradling her as Raven tries to calm herself, but she's losing control despite herself and bites down hard enough on Abby’s lip to draw blood. “Oh god, sorr—“ 

Abby, surprised and incredibly turned on, tightens once around her hand and settles back into the bed opening herself more, and she draws Raven’s hair through her fists and pulls hard.

Raven smiles into Abby’s kiss. The pleasure/pain of the way Abby’s forcing her head down barely lets her take a breath before she comes without warning, startling them both. She shudders violently and forgets her name, she only knows Abby's name. She forgets to be embarrassed by her loss of self. Abby's whispering dangerous, loving instructions in her ear and she bursts into tears of release. Abby rocks her through the orgasm and murmurs to her. Heat radiates from Abby changing the air around them into a slow palpable burn and it stirs Raven, again. Who even is she right now?

Abby’s hand is still in her hair and she pulls again, once experimentally, and then a second time hard enough that the spikes of light swimming through Raven’s vision disappear, and she comes to. Raven instinctively draws back and lets loose. She slams into her as hard as she can, as deep as she can. Abby rises up to meet her.

“Raven,” she whispers. 

The slick, hot walls surrounding Raven’s fingers thicken and swell. She hits a place that makes Abby moan and slides her hands to Raven’s waist, keeping her still, holding her away as Abby struggles to take her all the way in. It’s a possessive, unconscious gesture, and Raven’s eyes practically roll back in her head as she waits obediently for Abby to let her start again.

“Abby,” She begs, barely hanging on, “Let me.”

Raven grips at Abby’s hands helplessly and for a long moment they stare at each other, and she uses her good leg to push Abby’s farther apart. Abby’s right arm holds Raven to her and shivers through a wave of pleasure that’s too much for them both. What they do to each other is serious, more serious than it’s been all night. 

Abby is claiming her, marking her by holding her at bay; allowing them to map each other with whatever senses are available to them besides touch. When Abby moves it’s with a hesitancy that Raven hasn’t experienced from her before, in any situation. And she responds without thinking; she straddles Abby’s waist, coating her with her own wetness despite her desperate efforts to calm the fuck down and focus on what Abby needs and Abby’s not helping at all. She’s, with impeccable control, stalling her out. Tears well up again in Raven’s eyes—she’s so frustrated. 

Raven doesn’t even recognize the sounds she's making, or if they're coming from her—she literally has to bite down on her own hand to stop herself from continuing to plead with Abby to allow her to do something, anything. She breathes erratically through her fingers, whimpering until Abby’s tongue suckles at the skin underneath her breast, dragging her teeth along her collarbone and biting down; driving Raven senseless. 

Abby makes a noise in the back of her throat, “Raven," and leans into Raven and whispers to her, “Now.” And then she turns her face into Raven’s soft, cascade of hair, and says, “Come with me.” 

Raven gathers herself for her and hovers at the edge of an endless, timeless few seconds. And then with a final easing out and stroke back in; Abby lets go and allows both of their bodies to surrender.

Abby comes apart beneath her. It isn't the speed of it that throws Raven over with her, but their proximity to each other that affects the time dilation. The closer they are, the stronger the gravity and the more intense the temporal expansion. 

Raven’s whole world unravels. Even given all the adrenaline roaring through them, Raven knows how much Abby needs her right at this moment. Their mouths are barely separated. Raven falls alone, abandoned and frightened until she submits to Abby’s insistent need that Raven come with her. She won’t let Raven look away or move from where she is right beside her in her arms. 

The orgasm hits them both in a shock of delirium. They grasp desperately at each other through an event horizon. And the last bit of Raven’s mind that’s conscious before she’s lost in unbearable pleasure mumbles something incoherent about four-dimensional passages used to bypass three-dimensional space—constructed space that lives in the Fifth dimension.

And she’s like, what? The other parts of her shut the chatty-as-hell consciousness down and she doubles over and comes again. Unasked for, unlooked for, she goes where Abby’s taken them. There are no words for how scared she is; because this new world is all theirs, it’s just the two of them.

* * *

Raven’s eyes flutter open. She stares uncomprehendingly at the complete chaos of the bed and then shifts onto her back to stare stupidly at the ceiling. Abby rolls with her and stretches, Raven’s breathing hitches and Abby stills before reaching out for her. She hesitates and then gently traces Raven’s lips with her thumb. Raven bites down on it just as gently.

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’ve done this before, Abby. I’m not going to freak out.”

“Didn’t think so. But that’s not what I’m asking.”

Raven raises an eyebrow in response, and Abby sighs and rests her chin on Raven’s chest. When she looks down Abby is studying her.

“Don’t be my doctor right now. That’s weird.”

Abby laughs, a low pleased sound, “Raven. We'll do this together, but please talk to me.”

Raven stretches languidly and really thinks before saying, “We need to reproduce the mechanisms underlying my cognitive intelligence. We need to map what the Key is doing.”

“Yes, reverse engineer it down to a molecular scale—yours, because it’s choreographing itself in a singular way to you." Abby kisses her and traces the corner of her mouth with her nose, "You’re the only one who can do it, maybe Sinclair. But you’re a systems engineer and a physicist and—there’s no reason you couldn’t apply it to your own neuro-biological make up.”

“My specialty is  _literally_  rocket science, Abby. Aerospace Engineering, Astronautics. That’s it. Not Neuromorphic Engineering.”

Abby sits up abruptly and pushes her hands through her hair, trying and failing to curb her exasperation, “I read your file. Everything you did on and off the clock. That was my job. You're more than just a mechanic.” She’s holding Raven’s hand and Raven’s amazed she can focus at all. Abby’s touch is seriously destabilizing.

“It’s in my bloodstream. You’re the Surgeon here, not me. It’s reconfiguring the long-range synaptic connectivity to my memories—“

“What A.L.I.E. knows you know. It goes both ways. It’s using you as a PSU, and mining your memories. First the bad, because you’ve been living with severe post traumatic stress—“ 

“Who hasn’t?” Raven snaps.

“Raven, listen. Please. It’s not picking which memories it’s harvesting anymore and the process is speeding up. It’s symbiotic up to a point, okay? It has to be to integrate with your limbic and biological system—there are points in time when we can change our memory, where  _we_  can create windows of opportunity that allow you to alter your memories, and even erase specific memories. Anyone’s memory is flexible, maybe together we can think of ways we can interfere with that flexibility and, I don’t know, eavesdrop on how it does that?”

“Listen to the technology and find out what it’s telling you,” Raven is suddenly very interested, and then it hits her, “Wait. You read my file,” and she pins Abby with a flat, threatening stare. 

Which Abby ignores. She cradles Raven’s face in her hands, “Yes. You are a once in 50 years event.” Abby leans in to kiss her gently, “ _My_  once in 50 years event.” 

Raven pretty much swoons and then mumbles through the kiss, “52.”

“What?” 

“I’m the youngest Zero-G mechanic in  _52 years_.”

Abby laughs and nods, and kisses the corner of Raven's mouth again.

“You read my file. All of it. About my mother. And Nygel.”

Abby sees no reason to dissemble now, “All of it. And the drugs and what she made you do for her. That’s why we put you in Sinclair’s care as soon as we cou—”

Raven’s searches Abby’s expression for any pity and she finds none. Then, she’s hit by a wave of hurt that floors her; nausea and shame so overwhelming she wants to die. She doesn't understand where it comes from or why she says what comes out of her mouth next. She pulls away so fast Abby flinches, “You  _knew_? Why can’t I remember?”

“Because it’s starting, because you’ve already forgotten.” Abby’s tone is quiet, full of tenderness, “But I can tell you.”

* * *

She sings to him; she holds onto him. Titus drifts in and out of consciousness. 

Roan sits in the far corner, watching. Lexa tells Titus the story of their life together—from her training, his teachings—the Conclave. What his pedagogy and guidance has done for her, what she loves in him. Roan watches and listens. Roan wants the world for this girl, his friend. He wants the same possibility of freedom she’s been denied.

Titus turns towards Lexa, “Know me and you will know yourself.” He smiles and his eyes actually twinkle, a little.

You’re a bastard, old man.” Roan smiles.

“I am that.”

“She flat out told you she would kill you if you said her name anywhere near her tonight.”

Titus does his best to wave this aside and ends up coughing blood. Less than before, but still blood. “I didn’t count on Raven.”

“No one did,“ Lexa says.

Roan cocks his head, “What of her?”

“She’s in sectarian revolt, the same genus of violence that preceded me.”

Roan hisses out a muttered curse, “She’s a hybrid? How did that happen? Why is it happening again?” He runs a hand over his face. “No one crosses the Dead Zone.”

Lexa shakes her head. “We have four integrated points of fluid dynamics, known and unknown and unmeasured risk factors.  _Skaikru_ , The City of Light, the Coalition _just_ holds together and Ontari. Where should we start, Roan?”

“So that was the play-acting out there," Roan whistles low, eyes Lexa and she nods, “all right then. What have you two come up with?” He asks.

“Ontari is a wild card. We had no intelligence she even existed. Roan, you've held it from us, I think?” Her tone holds no irritation, “Have you observed her?”

“She’s playing with me, playing mute and fragile. I’ve known her since before your Ascension. My mother raised her, so guess what, she’s pathological. Severely abused her entire life and indoctrinated. Mother ruled by fear and blood.“ Roan shakes his head as if to dispel a nightmare, it makes him testy, “Why should I help you? You and I still have that small thing, a broken promise, between us. You’ve never explained that. You were to lift my banishment. You didn’t. First Ontari will come for you—”

“And then she’ll come for you, Roan. We’ve all done wretched things for the good of our People. I’m the enemy you know. If I had released you, your mother would have killed you.”

Roan’s face contorts, and Lexa reaches over to take his hand.

“The flame would never choose Ontari,” Titus says.

“It would and it might.”

Roan squeezes Lexa’s hand and lets her go, “Are you planning on dying?”

“There is the matter of  _Skaikru_.” Titus murmurs, “We must go ahead with the blockade, send them home under a kill order. If we let  _Hakeldama_ or the second attack on _Tondc—_ if we show weakness, the Coalition will not hold—“

“Already done, Titus. And Clarke will have to agree to it. Not all of  _Skaikru_  follows Pike, and she’ll plead for the few. The armies of the Twelve will march on Arkadia. Not to attack, but to contain. We will blockade the 13th Clan. We will keep PIke and his followers from the lands they wish to possess. We will give them time to take out their leaders from within. Once they rise against them, then we will welcome them back as one of us. The Twelve will be avenged. And  _Azgeda_ —“ She watches Roan, who looks about as defeated as she’s ever seen him, “ _Azgeda_  has a fatal flaw.”

“ _Heda_. What do you plan to do?” Roan asks.

* * *

The knock on the door and the curtain pulled aside jolts them all out of the conversation. Abby and Raven enter and Lexa moves aside allowing Abby to check the wound and dress it again. Roan doesn’t move and stares at the Doctor at work, or her ass. One of those. Raven wants to kick him and does.

“You two have made up?” Raven hovers, fully expecting to be flayed alive.

Lexa smiles at her, “My thanks for your over enthusiasm but, yes, we’re fine.” 

Raven is mortified.

“You’ve allowed Clarke—you’re going home, all of you.” Titus glares at her. “ _Jus no drein jus daun_ has failed.”

“Clearly.” Raven folds her arms over her chest and glares right back.

“Is a kill order necessary?” Abby asks, not looking up from her work.

“It’s the least we could do,” Roan laughs outright.

Clarke enters and comes to Lexa’s side after giving Titus a cursory once over, “Mom, step away from him.” She looks back at Lexa, “He tried to kill you today. How are you this calm?”

“You're angry about the kill order.” Lexa folds her hands behind her back and stands at ease.

“Yes.” Clarke says, “You’re making us choose. Bellamy I can understand, but—“

“How else would you have me enforce a blockade?”

“So when do we have to leave?” Raven feels foolish being in this room.  _Any alternative_  is more welcome than being in this room near Titus. The urge to kill him screams through her as strong as ever. She tries to get Abby’s attention. Raven shivers and swallows, pulls herself together as best she can. She stares at Lexa, her face pale. She’s desperate to leave and her vision swims, “Abby…?” 

Abby nods and says softly. "Okay, hold on." She cleans any extraneous supplies and takes Raven's hand in hers. Clarke looks a little weirded out. Raven givves her the finger because whatever.

“We may draw a line, but,” Lexa whispers to all of them, to Clarke most of all, “who's to say you can't choose to stay on this side of it?”

“ _Wanheda_ , the blockade goes into effect at dawn.” Titus barks, “I've made arrangements for all of you to take our fastest horses.”

“Thank you,” Raven says, the murderous impulse makes her spine ache. Abby’s hand at her back anchors her.

“I've asked Clarke to stay in Polis as my guest.” Lexa watches Raven, tilts her head, “You want to kill him don’t you.”

Raven has no choice; she nods yes.

Titus sits up in bed, his voice takes on the same tone Raven remembers from the celebration, her teeth grate together and she breaks out in a cold sweat, Titus doesn’t notice the blood draining from her face. He goes on, “On this sacred day, Please remember my teachings,  _Heda_. Love is weakness.”

“ _To be commander is to be alone_ ,” Lexa repeats. “Teacher, I will not hear this again.”

“Yes, you will. Your feelings for Clarke put both of you in danger.” Abby nods vehemently at that and Clarke rolls her eyes at her, “Your kill order must be fully enforced. If you care for Clarke, you will send her home and not give any of them a choice. It is the only way she will be safe. Don't make her pay the price for your mistakes as Costia did.”

Abby nods vehemently at that and Clarke rolls her eyes at her, “Your kill order must be fully enforced. If you care for Clarke, you will send her home and not give any of them a choice. It is the only way she will be safe. Don't make her pay the price for your mistakes as Costia did.”

“Oh, here we go,” Roan sighs.

Raven leans forward. The homicidal urge that’s eclipsing her awareness of herself is shunted to the side by another, more powerful storm of emotion rolling off of the Commander. Raven stares, her eyes tearing, her face pale.

Abby, slightly alarmed, puts the back of her hand against Raven's cheek, “Raven, look at me, just me.” She says very quietly into her ear. “Do not watch this.”

Clarke waits. What the fuck is Titus doing mentioning Costia  _again_? Clarke’s heart is breaking for her, she’s sick with guilt at the way she’s punished Lexa, punished them both. Lexa’s helpless, bleak anger is shaded with every emotional nuance Clarke refused to think she was capable of. She’s been delusional. It’s easier to see Lexa as impenetrable and devoid of anything that isn’t necessary to survival. Clarke reels from Lexa's unalloyed fury and steps back, afraid. All of it, them, all of their cascading emotions almost brings Raven to her knees. A.L.I.E. is coming online, and responsive.

All of it, them, all of their cascading emotions almost brings Raven to her knees. A.L.I.E. is coming online, and responsive.

“My mistakes?” Lexa says, her voice rising, “Azgeda cut off Costia's head and delivered it to  _my bed_ , and still, I let them into my alliance.” She advances on Titus so quickly that two guards stumble into the room, alarmed, “I'm more than capable of separating feelings from duty.”

The hapless guards, at Lexa’s word, stand poised to end Titus’ life. Even Roan’s curt, irritated gesture to get them out is ignored. They saw what happened earlier, everyone did.

“I'm sorry, Lexa. I didn't mean to offend you.” Titus doesn’t say this to Lexa, but to Raven. Abby’s hand grips Raven’s neck, not hard but she’s a presence. Both of them are vibrating with tension.

Lexa turns towards Clarke as she speaks to Titus. She’s at calm again, relaxed and unconcerned—it's jarring as hell. “Yes, you did... But you also mean well, and I know that, Teacher. I know where you stand, Titus.”

“ _Heda_ ,” Titus says, “Raven has the—her blood is like quicksilver now, unstable. She will kill you. She needs to be away from you. Or she needs to die.”

“No one’s killing anyone,” Abby grimaces. Enough.

Abby’s Comm crackles to life, startling everyone. She fumbles for it and Bellamy’s voice comes through, “Abby?” he sounds frantic and young, more like the young boy he is than she’s ever heard him.

“Go ahead.”

“You need to come back, all of you,  _right now_. Everything’s fucked. Pike’s charged Kane, Sinclair, and Lincoln with treason. Council members gather tomorrow for the trial. They’ll die within the next 48 hours—I don’t kno—”

“Switch channels, channel 7, Bellamy, diplomatic cipher—or use the medical channels, no one listens in on those. I don’t care if they know what we’re saying but I can’t risk anyone i.d.’ing your voice. We have less than 10 seconds. Can you get us a scrambled line? We’ll get there as fast as we can.”

And then to herself, her voice a mix of fond exasperation and deeply frightened irritation, “ _Goddamnit_ , Marcus.”

* * *

Abby leads the beautiful black mare, with Raven sitting in the saddle, through the shaded and dappled glades just off the road. Their escorts surround them in formation and will disperse and make camp when they’re just outside the blockade’s perimeters around the  _Skaikru_  settlement.

“Do you know why she gave me this?” Without looking back, Abby holds up the vial of black blood Lexa had slid into one saddle bag before they’d left. 

Abby, in a foul, distracted mood already, isn’t any happier that Clarke will follow them a day later instead of being with them now. But there was no time to argue.

“I’ll be hom—“ Clarke trips over the word “home”, “I’ll come before the blockade starts. Bellamy needs you now, and I may help from outside better than from within. They can’t get us all on charges of treason.” 

Clarke hugged her fiercely. Abby packed her own things; she knows what was and what wasn’t in there. Lexa must have placed the blood then.

Raven glances at what Abby shows her; too caught up in the shifting shadows and dazzling light of the forest they ride through in late afternoon, a waterfall of phenomenon and language enveloping her, “No idea.”

* * *

Lexa approaching her in a simple green gown that matches her eyes stops her heart. The Commander hesitates in front of her, shy.

Clarke wants to reach across the chasm opening between them, and steady her, steady them both. She should have been doing that all along.

Lexa is all gentle, hopeful grace, and asks, “When do you leave?”

She sounds like the young girl she is. Clarke wants to cry, “Now. I'm sorry.”

Lexa smiles sadly, her voice a caress, “Don't be. Go back. They're your people.”

There’s no censure in Lexa’s words, just understanding, and regret. Lexa takes Clarke’s hand in hers and turns it over, traces the lines of her palm with her fingertips, slides her hand up to grasp Clarke’s forearm in a formal farewell.

“That's why I—” She looks into Clarke’s eyes, warm and vulnerable, "that's why you're—you."

Clarke stares at her hard—all of this is just leaving herself wide open, “Maybe someday you and I will owe nothing more to our people.”

“I hope so.”

“May we meet again,” Clarke whispers to Jake, to Wells, to Finn, to Charlotte, to Murphy, even to the Grounders she burned, to Dante and Cage Wallace, to the people of Mount Weather she irradiated, to the entire universe. She whispers it to the girl standing in front of her.

Lexa steps further into the shadows of the room, away from her. Clarke can't stand it; it overwhelms her with such longing that her determination—her innate, desperate compartmentalization, so she needs nothing from anyone, no gesture of kindness or love from anyone, especially not this woman—fragments at last. The structures and walls of necessity and duty fall apart. She’s nothing, nobody.

There’s no gentleness in the kiss. 

Lexa takes her face between her hands and just holds her, waiting, a little shocked. Clarke hurts, and can’t do anything mercifully—she desperately wants to.

Lexa steals her away to a universe created the first moment they met, and takes her own time—explores her mouth, tastes her thoroughly, before letting her go  _again,_ to just wait for Clarke to follow _._

Lexa is bright with tears in the last brilliant light of day. The red-gold of the sun turns Lexa’s eyes into every color Clarke has ever wanted to describe and paint. This is the sacred meaning of her artist’s covenant—being able to paint the truth of a blue sky on turbulent waters, rather than just its image. The intelligence in Lexa’s gaze pierces her; the depths of Lexa’s true innocence will haunt Clarke for the rest of her life and beyond. She’s known it the first time they saw each other, she’s fought against it as long as that. She thought Earth was a dream, but she was dreaming of a woman.

“Do you understand now?” It’s said so softly Clarke’s not sure she’s heard anything. It could be her own voice speaking. Clarke swallows hard around the sudden constriction in her throat and the heaviness in her chest.

For the first time since coming to the ground she truly steps into the world beneath the stars, under the great trees, into the streams running cold through the night and down from the mountains. Lexa hasn’t taken them to a secret place; she’s only asking if this place between them is true. 

Clarke swipes the pads of her thumbs across the long sweep of Lexa’s sharp, glorious cheekbones and through her hair and as she leans in to kiss her again Clarke realizes she tastes both of their mingled tears. "The 300." It will always be between them. It will poison the rest of their lives, like everything else. And then Lexa breathes out: "Nia tortured her.

And then Lexa breathes out: "Nia tortured her. Costia was beaten raw. They destroyed her. What is one useless boy, and one broken man against evil? There has to be discernment or none of us will live."

Lexa’s conciliation, how absolute it is, is as much a part of this terrifying new world she fell to as it is a part of the vast reaches of stars she came from. It obliterates the difference. There’s no one else, there’s been no one else. 

A faint radiance, it’s coming from Lexa she’s sure, envelopes her. She cups Lexa's jaw, waits, and then takes Lexa into her arms and kisses her. She leans her forehead against hers, brushes her lips against the corner of her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke’s voice is very soft.

“No. Never be sorry for this. For any of it.” Lexa clings to her and closes her eyes. It's too much to look at her right now. “It started for you with Charlotte, Wells, with Murphy. You sent Murphy on the road he needs to be on. Your mother and Raven are on their path. More will come of Murphy than any other. And it was because you—“

“Condemned him for just being an asshole?”

Lexa laughs, pleased. “Yes.”

“He was an asshole,” Clarke says wryly and then sobers, “But not a murderer. I blamed him for things I was destroying myself over. How do you know about that?”

“How long do you think I’ve known you, Clarke? Long before you fell from the sky,” Lexa caresses her face, “What did your father say to you that night.”

Clarke sighs. wipes her eyes, “Lexa, you can’t know this much about me right now. We’re about to—“

Lexa smiles, “Yes, we are.”

“Can we be serious for a minute? Really?”

“Sorry.” Lexa studies her with total amusement. 

“Ok, wow.” Clarke pulls back. Lexa silences them both with a kiss and Clarke lowers her to the bed. Clarke breathes out a moan of pleasure when she bends her head and kisses her back. Her strength, the gracefulness, and certainty of Lexa’s body and the softness with which she surrenders to Clarke and lets her lead her is—Clarke strips her of her gown and sits back in awe.

Lexa skims her lips across Clarke’s breasts, cups her hand around one while she kisses the other through the material of Clarke’s shirt. Clarke hovers over her, shaking.

“Shhh. It’s all right,” Lexa says and then laughs at herself as more tears come, “I’ve never—you’re wonderful.”

Clarke feels a hand in her hair, stroking her down through an overwhelming onslaught of emotion. Clarke’s responds and runs her tongue around Lexa’s nipples, dipping in between her breasts to kiss her and then sucking gently on the surrounding skin. She puts her cheek against Lexa’s skin; it’s warm, she smells like the sun and the meadows in bloom, sage.

"You're so soft," Clarke whispers, “strong.” 

Lexa laughs, ”Not right now”

And Clarke allows her fingers to slide over her for a moment before bracing her hands on either side of her body, tonguing and biting her way up to her mouth and taking Lexa in a slow, deep kiss. “When I saw you I wanted to be yours.”

Lexa pulls Clarke’s clothes off of her. She brings Clarke back to her with an exploring, sweet kiss and settles Clarke on top of her. They both go still, caught between wonder and arousal. 

Clarke lifts her head and says, “I want you to be mine.”

Lexa moans softly and breathes out, smoothing her hands over Clarke’s back and raising her leg between her thighs. Clarke’s eyes flutter shut and Lexa kisses her, and Clarke instantly flares hot, and she groans deep in her throat and she slides her hand down between Lexa’s legs.

Lexa stiffens involuntarily, scaredm and Clarke shakes her head, “Don’t fight me, God, please don’t. Not now.” And she enters her easily and holds there. Lexa bites down hard on her neck and tightens around her hand, gripping her shoulders.

“Let me,” Clarke whispers.

Clarke can feel Lexa’s body submit before Lexa does; those preternatural eyes widen and Clarke waits. “Do you want me to?”

Lexa nods, “We don't do this alone, promise me, not this. We do this together.” She says into Clarke’s ear.

“Let me.”

Clarke stares wordlessly at Lexa, her breath hitching. She watches awestruck as Lexa unravels, the latent control in her and iron will of her existence melt away. Lexa relaxes and opens; she arches back and raises her legs to wrap around Clarke’s waist. One hand slides around Clarke’s shoulders and the other drifts down between them to hold Clarke’s wrist. She guides Clarke even deeper into her and moves their hands in tandem, stroking in a steady rhythm and then harder, relentless. Her mouth falls open slightly with the pleasure and she shifts to touch her forehead to Clarke’s. “Like that.” She says. “Just like… Clarke.”

The sound of her name being whispered in that way, so laced with heat, sends Clarke reeling. “Use me,” she licks the curve of Lexa’s jaw, “I’ll do anything.”

It’s unlike anything she’s ever known—to be inside Lexa as she moves beneath her; Clarke’s hips respond, pushing her hand in and twisting as she pulls out, her desperation gathering and she rakes her hand up to Lexa’s chest and holds her down on the bed, rising above her to leverage herself and meet Lexa’s increasingly erratic thrusts. Lexa grabs Clarke’s waist and pulls her against her. And still, Clarke can only see her eyes. Behind the desperate, ascending drive towards flight she sees what she saw in the Throne Room when she first came to Polis. She sees what she would have seen if she hadn’t been in shock and enraged. Lexa’s eyes, her entire soul, is open to her. Whether in anger, combat, alliance or love—Lexa has always been the north star guiding her, the signpost in her sky she always knew was there and denied. She is the dream of Earth that almost killed her with raw reality. She’s what she wants besides peace. She gives her everything and Lexa allows her everything.

There’s no tenderness when Lexa comes; it rips through her like a storm over the ocean, even her fathomless depths are shaken. She comes moaning Clarke’s name over and over, and all Clarke can do is hang on and ride it out as best she can until Lexa’s shivering, worked over body relaxes and molds itself to hers.

She’s quiet for so long Clarke becomes alarmed until  "I will take you," her voice is a hot murmur in her ear, “I’ll take you for all the times you doubted me, and fought me, and tried to kill me and then I'll take you after that and brand you in a secret place. You’ll always be free to go where you choose, but I will mark you as mine.” Whether that’s true or not and whether Clarke’s first instinct is a huge  _the fuck you will_ combined with an even bigger slice of _oh my god oh fuck yes, please._  Lexa can read it all and her contained hilarity at Clarke’s obvious consternation at wanting to be handled like—well, she doesn’t even know but everything sounds kind of perfect.

“That’s our way,” Lexa says with a straight face.

“Uhmmm, I don’t—“

“Oh, girl. You want it so badly I could hear you when I was riding back from a little sea shore excursion. It’s lovely right now, I'm sure you're interested.” Roan, with a curt word to the guards, bangs open the doors and strides into the room. Clarke squeaks and scrambles to cover herself and Lexa. Lexa accepts the blanket with the biggest display of nonchalance in the history of the world.

“What even—” Clarke yells and throws a candle at his head. “What is with you two?”

Roan dodges it, picks it up and places it back where it was. Lexa lights it again, it’s her favorite.

“He wasn’t anywhere near the sea. He was following your mother and Raven.”

“They’re off,” he half bows and throws his cloak over a chair and comes to sit down on the bed. “Your mother,” he turns to Clarke and regards her, “between her and Raven, the City of Light will have a reckoning not seen since the Fall. I’d be surprised if we can keep up.”

“What is he talking about,” Her nudity and general extreme disarray forgotten for a moment, Clarke turns to Lexa. Who runs a hand through Clarke’s hair and tugs playfully at the ends of it, calming her down.

“First some background, I think,” Roan suggests.

“I need to get behind the blockade by dawn,” Clarke growls, put out again, and unsatisfied. She’s been ready to come for hours.

“Shh.” Lexa lays back in Clarke’s arms, the sheet slides down to her waist and Clarke traces the tattoo outlining her back. Roan watches with a mixture of slight shyness and fondness.

“This is beautiful,” Clarke says and kisses the back of Lexa’s neck.

“I got it on my Ascension Day, a circle for every  _Natblida_  that died when the Commander chose me.”

“7 circles. I thought you said there were 9 novitiates at your conclave.”

“Smart girl,” Roan murmurs.

“There were.”

“What happened to number 8?”

Lexa glances at Roan, who gives her a slight shake of his head, “She needs to know,  _Heda_.” He rethinks and then says, “ _I_  need to know.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Lexa reaches around to cup Clarke’s face and tugs her in for a kiss.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Roan gets up from the bed, points his finger at Lexa and growls ominously, “When you two are done, and hooray for you, we need to talk. ALL of us. So get on with it.” He sails out of the room muttering to himself about _it's about fucking time_ and crazy, stubborn idiots.

Clarke turns in Lexa’s arms and smiles, see’s Lexa’s bittersweet look on her face and says, “We don't have to talk at all.”

* * *

Clarke can barely keep her eyes open she feels so good, Lexa’s warm breath caresses the back of her neck. Lexa’s weight presses her down against the bed--her breasts against her back, her hand strokes between her legs, her fingers moving through her center. Lexa’s mouth, her voice sounds low against her ear, familiar, relaxed and maddeningly clinical. Clarke tries to turn in her arms.

"No, this is what I want, now. Stay still."

Clarke tries to do as she’s told. Light, firm strokes draw out the last of her control as she’s guided to a state between utter frustration and release. She moans.

"Shh. You’re mine." Lexa says from above.

Clarke’s breath escapes in heavy gasps, her chest constricts with fear. Her inability to move, her unwillingness to fight what Lexa’s doing—how strange that is for her. It makes her frightened and she shivers in the cool air as her body becomes drenched with a sheen of arousal. Her whole body is pulsating, it's so strong she almost starts pleading.

"What are you doing to me?” Clarke whispers.

"What you wanted from the start." Lexa licks her neck, her ear. Her other hand cradles Clarke’s neck under her chin and holds her head up and turns her so she can claim Clarke’s mouth with a deep kiss that floods her with emotions she can’t name. Lexa’s tongue explores her mouth as if they have all night; as if Clarke isn’t on the verge of coming so hard she’s losing the ability to think. Clarke’s own hands are useless, Lexa tells her not to move them from where she’s placed them above her. So far she’s been able to follow that directive and anytime it looks like she’ll move them Lexa stops and abandons her to wait for her to obey and Lexa can decide when to begin again.

"I've always known how to touch you, Clarke.”

"I was so angry," Clarke murmurs, and Lexa’s hand caresses her mouth, and slides her fingers in.

"Taste yourself," Lexa orders.

Clarke moans as Lexa’s hand finally enters her, she takes Lexa’s fingers all the way into her mouth and sucks and licks them in and out as Lexa's hand inside her echoes her simultaneously. The sensation of being filled up completely is unbelievable and she's spiraling. She’s moaning and still can’t move at all because of Lexa’s controlled position. She doesn’t want to, the constriction only adds to her increasingly frantic need to surrender and release.

"Lexa—"

Lexa’s breathing stops when hers does, and with a final thrust, she says, “Now, Clarke. Come for me.”

Clarke rocks against Lexa’s hand once, twice and she falls apart. She cries out against Lexa’s hand as she comes and Lexa guides her through it lovingly, whispering to her, with sure, even caresses. The pleasure spreads through her body in merciless waves and it lasts so long and is so disorienting that Clarke whimpers in surprise as she feels herself begin to crest again. Lexa rolls her over and thrusts her hand inside of her up to her wrist and Clarke clings to her and comes again, this time hard and fast and Lexa can only take her into her arms and rock her through the aftershocks until she, after a long while, finally collapses against Clarke whispering lovely, beautiful things to her.

Together they have a name in every myth and story as long as life and mortality is a part of language and the body; The Otherworld and the Underworld—The Commander of Death and The Commander of the Blood. The path can be accessed by death or by divine favor, and in the brilliance of their desire and anger and grace, how it’s burned them to ashes from the start—to what extent it’s razed them both to their foundations—all Clarke wants is for them to be together as they are. Just Lexa and Clarke.

Clarke stares at Lexa, who stares back. She reaches out to touch Lexa’s lips and Lexa kisses her fingers. Then she says, “You’re a crier.”

Lexa smiles, “Don’t tell anyone.”

* * *

Raven leans down from the back of her horse and grabs Abby’s hand and, hoping to tease her out of her horrendous mood, recites Bell’s hypothesis. “Particles can instantaneously affect each other even far apart. Information cannot travel faster than the speed of light. It’s called… ‘entanglement’?”

“A change to one of two  _entangled_  photons affects the other photon even separated by spatial distance,” Abby says.

“So, love slash entanglement transcends spatial dimensions?” Raven muses. “What about temporal dimensions? Love isn’t a dimension, and can’t transcend time—for the time being.” She’s pretty pleased with herself for that one.

“No?” Abby stops the horse and looks at her, shading her eyes from the sun. They flash at Raven like shards of diamonds, “Who’s asking? You or A.L.I.E?" 

Raven settles back in her saddle easily enough; A.L.I.E., beautiful in her remoteness, incongruous in her bright red dress, walks next to Abby. She’s not finished with this woman, this Surgeon, not by a long shot, “Interesting that it matters to you. I know what A.L.I.E. knows.”

Raven dips down again to kiss her and rights herself again when she’s about to slide off the back of the animal. A.L.I.E continues/Raven speaks, “I am not neutral. A.L.I.E. is inside of what I am, and I am inside of her. Together, we’re living in this world—and it matters what her directive is, that her original programming holds. No one has resisted her except me. She’ll come for me somehow—she’s hooked.”

“ _You_ ,” Abby practically snarls _,_ “have a name. Your name is Raven.  _Your_  consciousness is infinitely complex functions; interaction and synchronization of neural networks. Your mind is monistic as opposed to dualistic like A.L.I.E. The program will never understand.”

“Some circuits appear to be consistently activated; those involved with pleasure.” Raven/A.L.I.E hums. 

“Yes,” Abby says dryly, “Complexity is bewildering.”

Abby pays no attention to anything after that. She’s shaken, furious, systematically gets her temper under control. She walks along without seeing, deep in thought—it’s basic developmental biology.

Salamanders regenerate after injury—after losing a tail or limb. Regeneration, this small miraculous thing, has been around since the dawn of time and in the last years before the Fall scientists perfected harvesting and using stem cells, unspecialized cells that can develop into specialized cells with the potential to grow into various limbs, organs, and tissues. Abby kicks herself for not putting this together sooner, the  _natblida_ , whatever its makeup, involves structural regrowth and functional restoration of an injured biological, organic system. It’s a salamander of the highest order.

The stuff allows the body to live in extreme radiation after apocalypse, forms a symbiotic relationship with biological substrates. Disease—regrowth, regeneration. A.L.I.E. is qualitatively not rehabilitative; the program and code are not even rebirth—it’s a utopian monstrosity. But Clarke has told Abby about the black blood, what she’s seen in Polis, what she saw in the arena that day with Lexa and Roan. When Lexa bleeds, she bleeds black and Abby holds it in her hands.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay guys, this is a tough one, but remember “fuck canon”

“After all you've seen here you still think this is just superstition.” Lexa comes back to herself slowly. She breathes out a long overdue offering and closes her eyes as Clarke traces her tattoo. Touch starved, she shivers with pleasure when Clarke skims between her breasts and again along her spine, kneading softly.

“The eighth circle.” Clarke asks, “Costia?”

Lexa laughs. “No.” She sighs, “Costia was only Costia. That was enough.”

Unassailable. The wave of possessiveness that washes over Clarke is uncomfortable. Lexa grasps her hand, tugs gently to calm her, and tries to catch her eye. Clarke schools her probably transparent as hell expression and licks her lips, shyly raising her gaze to Lexa’s, because Jesus, she’s not _twelve_.

“I don't understand. If Nightblood is so rare, then why do you kill each other? That has to be the dumbest succession plan I've...” Clarke just trails off.

“We honor those who die in the Conclave.” Lexa turns in Clarke’s arms, expression open and focused, and she runs her thumb over the corner of Clarke’s mouth, gathers her closer. Clarke leans over, and bites down softly on Lexa’s lower lip, keeping herself aching, needing Lexa inside her again. Out on the far plains where hate and love meet _here_ is still frightening, even for them.

“You’re deflecting,” Clarke says. “The eighth circle. Lexa. There's another _Natblida_?”

“Yes. Luna fled,” Lexa goes into a fairly hilarious imitation of Titus, “ _a coward and a traitor to the blood. Lexa refused to let me hunt her down. She's unworthy of the Flame._ ”

Lexa drops her forehead to Clarke’s shoulder. She’s overwhelmed, scared still, by memories.

Clarke is desperate to help her come home again, back to this bed and to this room and to her and brushes her tongue across Lexa’s nipple. Lexa swears and arches and Clarke shifts on top of her, catching her wrists.

“ _Mine,”_ Clarke says softly, it’s barely anything. She kisses her. “Mine,” she says again, warm against Lexa’s ear, and then Clarke never takes her eyes away from Lexa’s face.

* * *

Lexa abruptly gets out of bed for more wine and something else. Clarke watches her, a little dazed.

Even the few times they’ve stopped and replenished themselves from a plate of fruit and cheese— mysteriously appearing outside the door to Lexa’s chambers sometime in the last few hours—it’s not enough to satisfy. Once in the night, when her control unraveled completely, Clarke had clung to her and said something so absolute, so desperately, Lexa isn’t sure she heard it.

She brings more of the fruit and wine to bed and then turns back to Clarke, who’s beyond amused and charmed, because really? After everything they’ve done with each other, Lexa’s soft and vulnerable again, silently asking if she can get her anything she needs. It’s a little wild to take in. She’s seen this woman fight.

“Don’t forget what I’m about to say if anything should happen to me.” She hands Clarke a journal, worn, beaten, the edges of the pages tattered and blurred. “This is yours now. It's the journal of the first Commander.” 

Clarke takes the thing with some curiosity, and breathes, “Becca.” and some dark defensive flash of anger mars her features but she manages to get words out despite her spike of fear and refusal, “Why?"

Lexa nods carefully, once as if deciding something, and then she sits next to her, sweeping her hand through Clarke’s hair. She takes her hand again. “I took it from Titus, who wouldn’t know what to do with it if it was in plain Trigedasleng—which it’s not—even after all these years.” She starts to say, a little sharply, and then stops herself and murmurs, “When you find Luna, you'll need it to perform the Ascension ritual.”

“What do you mean _when_ —“ Lexa cuts her protest short with a fierce, passionate kiss and the dread blooming in her chest disappears.

They curl into each other, too exhausted for even a whispered endearment. They haven’t said nearly enough tonight; either with their bodies or with language so limited it can’t encompass what either of them can imagine.

There will never be enough between them. This is a best guess, a hope; they might never see each other again after Clarke leaves for Arkadia.

Instead, Lexa falls back to what she's allowed right now; she holds Clarke close and takes her again, and her heart silently promises what she can as the hours wind down, as the moment of separation comes closer. _I have been waiting. You are the woman I wanted to find before I die._

Afterward, she holds Clarke’s still trembling body close as she catches her breath and glides her fingers through her hair. They’re quiet for a long time. 

“Will you tell me about Bellamy and Raven?”

It's not at all what Clarke is expecting, but it results in a gentle, sleep-warm conversation about her people, and how they’re all pretty stubborn and drive each other insane. She talks about  _how young_ they all are—she even talks about Finn.

She talks about the different classes, the caste strata and Ark society—the Council, Abby, Marcus, Jaha, the constant population, food and oxygen stores and concerns—the draconian system of keeping everyone in line, for the greater good. She talks about Jake, all of it—up until the Culling. She talks about how things could be different down here, where none of them thought life existed anymore.

She talks about the first time she stepped off the dropship. She talks about Raven. Lexa asks her questions about her, pointed ones.

Lexa holds Clarke as she tells her about her first time with Finn. It doesn’t occur to Clarke not to say something about it, and Lexa smiles when Clarke tells her about the art supplies.

And Clarke pretty much will do anything to see Lexa smile, so she talks about her art and how she drew a tree in her cell in Lock-Up and how much she wants to continue to draw Lexa when she isn’t aware she’s doing it. And they fall asleep like cubs together as the sun comes up. 

* * *

They wake to the sound of horns.

The horns blow, and Lexa, Commander of the Blood, Leader of the _Trikru_ and the Thirteen Clans wakes to a second apocalyptic winter rising in the spring night. She forgets herself and wrenches out of Clarke’s embrace. The loss is felt immediately.

A nightmare comes again out of the species’ depths, and it’s formed out of the broken latticework of a dying race. It advanced out of the Cold North before her Ascension, already hungry for her life.

She takes up her sword from where it lies beside her bed and draws it out to her body and sketches a blessing. And then she rises and faces Roan, who has entered her room in extreme, helpless fury. He sways before her, dead on his feet—she makes no move to help him—noting black blood splashed across his face. She stands before him naked and formidable. His sword is wet with red blood, and they stare at each other, holding the icy wastes back between them by sheer will and fading hope.

“Tell me,” she asks, her voice is steady.

“A.L.I.E has killed all the novitiates. Ontari, she’s killed—” He hefts his sword, shows her the flat of it, “This is her faction— _the conclave_ —we got there too late, my men—the ones that are loyal—are few. We couldn’t—”

“Lexa?” Clarke rises and pulls herself together, gathering her clothes and then Lexa’s. Lexa takes them without looking at her and begins to dress.

* * *

The Flame, her line, the original artificial intelligence program had been some graduate students fucking around after hours. They’d called it _Yggdrasil_.

Becca had already let A.L.I.E. run. _Pramheda’s_ students named the root code UMLs with whatever cosmology was pretentious enough to drive her nuts. It was supposed to be obnoxious: Crown (which stands for Divine Will), Wisdom, Understanding, Knowledge, Kindness, Severity, Beauty, Victory, Splendor, Foundation, and Kingship. Someone had taped the Umberto Eco quote up on the lab wall. _“We were clever enough to turn a laundry list into poetry.”_

All Commanders return to the morphogenetic fields. A Commander is a focused illusion of being, and real death of the body occurs when the second iteration of the program reaches its limits and does what it’s designed to do—evolve. Love. Empathy.

She knows all of it, and she nods at Roan.

“Aden?” Clarke can’t think, the sick horror of being too late is— “Ontari killed Aden?”

Roan shakes his head violently in bitter denial. He follows Clarke to the open window where the sun is just breaking through morning fog. When he sees the torches still burning along the streets a wave of nausea rips through him.

His people, _Azgeda_ , stand with weapons drawn, like terrifying barrow wraiths. The bright white war paint is eerie; they damn the land and city around them with their presence. They stand watching the tower fall from within, and they wait.

“There is a whole army down there, _Heda_ , hundreds,” a voice says softly. He’s talking; Roan can barely recognize himself through his grief and helplessness. “There are as many who are loyal to you within the Tower, outside the gates. We could—”

“Roan, it’s all right,” Lexa murmurs.

Roan turns, “Who fucking cares? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You do, Roan. You always have.”

Clarke wonders at both of them, and it rides her hard. She’s missing something underneath their words.

Lexa casts a flat, unreadable glance at Clarke, and then turns back to Roan, ”There are packs and weapons just there, behind the couch. You are to go from the lift to the stables through the tunnels north of the gates, just past the—”

“Yes, _Heda_.” Roan says.

Lexa inclines her head in acknowledgment. Clarke startles. These arrangements have always been in place. They've trained for it. They’ve been discussed without her. These _assholes_.

“Lexa, you’re coming?”

Lexa levels her with the most unsettling look of compassion and love she’s ever known. It just barely keeps her from falling, weakened with pain and shock, and she clears her throat through her sudden tears. This decision isn’t, was never, hers to make.

“You’ll die,” Clarke states as calmly as she can.

Roan crosses the room and comes back with a small knife. He motions abruptly for Lexa to turn. To Clarke’s utter disbelief Lexa dutifully sits before him and pulls her hair away from her neck. Roan bends to his task.

“Clarke,” Lexa holds out her hand. “Come here.”

Before Clarke can react or scream because it looks a lot like Roan is about slit Lexa’s throat, he makes a small, brutally quick incision just below the nape of her neck. Clarke sees Lexa flinch, and she reaches out instinctively and cups her face in her hands, draws her fingers along her jaw, soothing her out of pain.

Lexa’s eyes dilate from green to a haunting approximation of the protean, breathing mercurial onyx and blue-silver that Clarke has only seen once before—she can’t remember where, a dream.

Lexa goes limp. Roan comes around with one arm to support her, and Clarke catches her around the waist. Roan reaches carefully into the wound.

An opalescent shimmer of light glows once, throwing out its brilliance, and turns the room into a spectral, unearthly kaleidoscope. There are echelons of color, and then the thing blinks out as fast as it’s appeared. It coalesces into a small multifaceted crystal; it looks both ancient and new—a time-worn symbol of infinity.

Lexa’s eyes blink out and close. Her limp body pitches forward into Clarke’s arms. She cradles Lexa to her and stares at Roan, her vision dimming. From very far off Roan reaches for her, steadies her and she vaguely hears him say, “Easy. See there.”

Roan’s grip is hurting her. Pain is good right now. Pain works.

Lexa stirs in her arms, opens her eyes. There’s a subsonic boom, like below the surface of reality, an explosion in the vacuum of space and they pass through an ephemeral, liminal membrane, and they are—

They’re elsewhere; they’re standing knee deep in water. The world is ocean in all directions, to every horizon.

* * *

Clarke lifts her head to the breeze, it smells like starlight and moss in the sun, it smells like frost and fire, it smells like _home_.

“Clarke, open your eyes.”

Clarke does. And what she sees makes her stumble to her knees; the water slides over her waist like mercury, which it might be. It’s sentient; she can feel the immense force of its curiosity, and its welcome.

They stand in the center and as outliers, alone and surrounded by untold millions of acres of water. Terrible storms gather and dissipate around them; Clarke watches dark cumulonimbus thunderheads pile miles high in a deep-emerald sky— _Lexa’s eyes, Clarke thinks_ —and dark against the storms is a structure that takes her breath away.

She sees the baleful green of Lexa’s eyes in everything, like a lovesick idiot, and that pisses her off enough to snap her out of wonder, because _not yet_.

The violence around them is impossible. They watch lightning the size of continents arc itself across the great web of branches and flora. It’s a— _tree?_ A tree like nothing she’s ever seen before and the storms disappear as quickly as they form. Illusory and ephemeral.

Across the immense, conscious ocean stands an ash tree, a high tree, soaked with shining loam; its branches cradle the sky as flashes of storm light unveil its awesome presence. The water breathes around them. There’s only an occasional ripple breaking at their feet.

From the code’s startling colored leaves, Clarke sees dew falling into the immense valley of ocean. The water refracts the light, over all the miles, down into the depths of World and up into the heavens. The thing is miles wide, and the universal mind is alive. It strikes the surface of a turbulent sea—a sea that quiets around them as if a god has stepped through the veil and waits.

Clarke thinks wildly, slightly hysterically, that the tree knows them, has always known them, and holds them in some high regard. _I know that I hung on a windy tree._ That was the old poem.

Lexa kneels next to her, and sighs in relief, “I am of the Tree Clan. But I have always been set apart,” she says. “My blood sets me free and condemns me. _Natblida_ is blood-rich in traceable nanotech—.”

“You—your people—have been exposed to radiation over the last 97 years—so that makes sense,“ Clarke says. Because, sure. They can talk science.

Lexa shakes her head, “No, not the same. I have a Tree of Life in me, and in every Tree, there is a Commander. The Tree grows inside of me, and I am of the Tree."

“Lexa,” Clarke says, lamely, because Lexa isn't making much sense.

She turns from the glory around her to stare at the glory next to her—Lexa. The girl is as familiar to her as her own life, and her questions are simple, “What is this place? Who are you?”

“This place? Who am I?” Lexa repeats softly and looks around her in barely contained joy, "The _Fleimkepa_ calls this the Forest Ocean. It is the first sea of the World, and that,” she points, “is the central source code—used as a ladder to ascend the heavens.”

“That’s not the Flame?” Clarke feels like this a perfectly normal conversation now, “Who are you?”

Lexa laughs, “No, that’s not the Flame. And I am not Lexa.”

She turns to Clarke with shining eyes.

“This,” she says, “is what Lexa’s made of me. How could I not love her?”

The intelligence—finally equal to it’s beloved—puts aside it’s secrets and gives Clarke a smile of beauty and unsurpassed courtesy, “It seems you and I love the same person.”

* * *

Raven explained it once to Monty. In the Old Age, before The Fall, code was talked and written about as increasingly more and more complex strata of information: retail and government data. Process flow catered to a user's choice.

Artificial Intelligence _could be_ different: possibly so far ahead of its time and influence that it was nearly inconceivable. Strange, creative, idiosyncratic. It could build entire solar systems from first principles, using natural resources; using its own unique design, the sun’s energy.

And it could make you a beautiful necklace from metals like Finn could. It could make you calm like the woods and forests around you, and it held danger and astonishment.

Whatever Clan was yours, even _Azgeda_ : this code was different. The code was there all along, biding its time. When Becca made the alteration it was a programmer’s equivalent of _there'll come a time, when you'll see the light from a fire or a star in another person, and you'll be so happy to know another person exists_. _you love IF smile THEN._

This is More. Much More.

This World dwarfs the world she thinks of as Real.

This Tree, Clarke sees, is as alive and organic as she is. The main personality and particle wave probabilities, holograms of forests and unknowns that she imagines _is_ Lexa, her Clan, and her soul—the Commander in all her moods and needs, her desires, and duties—elevates itself in tandem with the Ur-root and branches they stand under. They are as small as mice beneath its immense and gentle power.

It bows to them—entire ecologies of language, of flowerings and death, the hundreds of miles of its expanse—celebrates itself in their honor. The shifting ocean-rich soil of vessels of spirit, between branch shoots and neuron roots maps its life to their hearts. It recites the eons old edda:

_I know that I hung on a windy tree_

_nine long nights,_

_wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,_

_myself to myself,_

_on that tree of which no man knows_

_from where its roots run._

_—_ an immense syntax—resurrection.

“It’s all right,” sends the A.I. and Lexa’s familiar, soft smile calms Clarke, who’s just trying to breathe through her tears, “I won’t let go. We have too much to live for. Nine days. Keep her safe for us.”

The artificial intelligence—and the soul of the Commander, waiting patiently—presses her hand to her heart, takes a final turn into Clarke’s summer blue eyes and kisses her. “Death is not the end.”

Lexa is already fading into far dimensions.

 _“Go back, you’re needed,”_ Clarke hears.

And the trees marched to battle: the woods came alive, each with some outstanding attribute, now apt, now obscure. Another poem, another prophecy.

 _I have been a multitude of shapes, before I assumed a consistent form. I have been a sword, narrow, variegated, I have been a tear in the air, I have been in the dullest of stars. I have been a word among letters; I have been a book in the origin._  

Clarke knows the poem. She read the Hanes Taliesin on the Ark. The Battle of the Trees.

_I was with my Lord in the highest sphere; On the fall of Lucifer into the depth of hell; I have borne a banner before Alexander; I know the names of the stars from north to south; I have been on the Galaxy at the throne of the Distributor._

And she’s gone.

* * *

“Clarke,” Lexa whispers, exhausted, unsure without the Flame.

She crushes Clarke to her in a fierce embrace, and wraps the cloak she holds around her, and then pushes Clarke violently away as she coughs up the nano-rich blood and spits it out.

Clarke howls in protest, splattered in black. Clarke stumbles towards Roan as Lexa intended.

The black blood pours out of the incision in Lexa’s neck and covers her like wings, all down her back and her arms.

Lexa staggers to her feet and sweeps up her sword. “Go. Ontari, all of them. They’re coming.”

From very far away, Clarke hears Roan shouting at her. It’s only when he grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him—slinging the pack over her shoulders and shoving the Flame into her hand—that she begins to fight him like an animal, like something helpless and destroyed by terror and grief and beaten beyond recognition.

His eyes never leave Lexa's, even as Roan wrestles Clarke out of the room—almost losing his face in the process as she claws at him. Lexa gasps with the freedom of just being a body, _herself_ , as she was before her Ascension.

It’s too raw, where they’ve returned from is too much of a secret between Lexa and Clarke, and too much for either of them to understand.

Only someone dying could understand this flaying away of everything unnecessary. Everyone and everything alive has felt this, and it should never see the light of day or be witnessed except between the two souls who share it.

And their lives can be counted in minutes now because all of Azgeda is descending on Lexa’s bedchamber and Roan has to get Clarke _away._

Lexa’s personal guards are beaten back into her chambers. Lexa goes to each one of them and holds them to her in a final act of benediction. After long moments they turn as one, a company of at least a hundred, and wait for what will come.

And then it all goes silent as Roan enters the tunnels beneath Lexa’s quarters, into the shaft ways down and under the throne rooms, into the path that will take them out of the city, to the foothills and beyond.

He has to smash Clarke unconscious to get her to stop fighting him and he’s crying as he does it, and then all goes dark. And he runs.

He runs, with Clarke held tightly in his arms.

He runs for their lives.

* * *

Everything has been given back to her. It's fantastic.

Raven sits when Abby asks her to sit and she stays quiet when Abby asks her to be quiet and she nods complacently when Abby tells her that she has to leave the room for a moment.

It’s only been an hour since they got back to Arkadia and Abby’s left her here, useless. She can’t remember why Abby has asked her to sit in this room. Everything has been taken from her. She takes a deep slow breath, and then she smiles. 

* * *

Marcus, Lincoln, and Sinclair look up. In the holding cells, sound comes from all over the complex, a trick of acoustics. It’s ridiculous what they’ve heard in the last 12 hours staring at nothing, waiting to die. Thelonius’ stupid fucking voice drifts around them like smoke. He’s talking to himself. _Lunatic._

“Raven is looking for ways to leave us. I'm telling you, doubt spreads like a virus." 

_“It's not logical. According to the data, all human behavior revolves around the avoidance of pain. I offer an escape from suffering. Why would anyone resist this?”_

“Logic has nothing to do with it. Free will is the problem. I told you, we have to get around it.”

_“Around it how?”_

“Give Raven back her pain. Remind her what life was like without you.”

_“You're suggesting I coerce complicity.”_

“I'm suggesting that once we give consent and take the key, we're yours, tools to be used to accomplish our mission—saving the human race by migrating what's left of it to the City of Light. In that way, we're no different than the missiles you launched a hundred years ago. You hacked their programming. Now it's time to hack ours _. Override free will_ , starting with Raven's, and let's finish what we started.”

Even Sinclair can't figure it out. 

* * *

Lincoln doesn’t see Abby enter the cell with a cadre of guards, but Marcus does.

Miller, Harper, Bryan and Bellamy flank Abby. Pike shadows them until Abby turns to Pike, and says quietly, “Charles, give us a minute.” She hesitates, and then even more softly, “Please.” 

Charles Pike nods once, surprisingly gentle, and backs out of the room. Lincoln and the rest turn away out of respect. Sinclair and Lincoln begin to circulate amongst the failing Grounders sharing the cells with them, as they’ve done every hour they’ve been here. They offer support and comfort, and hope—everyone else turns away and leaves their weapons at rest. Abby and Marcus have their mostly silent reunion.

Abby closes the distance between them cautiously, a ghost of a smile on her face, “What have you done now?”

He’s fairly sure it would be inappropriate to start giggling like little kids but they just might.

Marcus doesn't move. Abby stares at him for a second, before taking a final tentative step forward and putting her hands on his shoulders, bringing him as close as he’ll allow her to. He’s always thinking of her first, maybe even on the Ark, she has no idea. But she knows she thinks of him before anyone else, besides Clarke and now, Raven.

“Are you all right?” He asks her. It breaks her heart. Only Marcus on his way to his execution would care more for her than himself.

“I won't let this happen to you,” she says very quietly. 

“Abby, listen.” Marcus knows her, he knows everything about her, he knows what she’ll do, and—“Anyone caught helping us will be condemned, too.”

“Then I won't get caught.” Her face sets in that way it does with him, determined and calculating, defiant. She looks beautiful and he wants to remember her this way, flourishing and vulnerable—the way they’ve always clashed and worked together and softened. Bless her in every way possible known to man and God. He loves this woman. Her hands caress through his hair, as close as a kiss.

Marcus makes a small unreadable noise and then says, “Look. I'm begging you—I'm begging you, just don't—don't do it. Our people need someone here to show them a way out of the dark.”

Her face crumples and she shakes her head helplessly, close to broken. “I can't do this again.” 

Her cheek slides against his and he takes her wrists gently in his hands, because if he doesn’t _he’ll break_ —he’s so frightened and lost he hasn’t had time to actually fall apart—and he begs her silently not take this step with him. To not willingly destroy her own heart again the way witnessing Jake die fractured it once before. It takes reminding himself that he was the cause of Jake’s death as much as she was that gives him the strength he needs to not let Abby sacrifice herself now. He loves her, he can’t do this to her—he can’t let her do this to herself. It’s the single worst miscalculation he’ll ever make, because Abby Griffin will do anything for the people she loves.

The crisp morning air still clings to her hair from the dawn ride out of Polis—and he allows—

“Don't make this any harder than it already is,” he says as he gently disengages from her and turns away, “guard.”

* * *

Lincoln’s friend holds his hand; she’s very sick and very weak. They’re all hungry. “You will not die for us. Live.”

* * *

Pike knows strategic interference when he encounters it. “Same drill. Sweep in pairs. Watch your blind spots.”

Lincoln, Sinclair, and Marcus stand quietly as the guards around them begin to unravel in barely contained panic, these are well-trained men and women and they’ve screwed up royally, leaving the hanger bay unguarded. Goddamn Jaha and his peace-loving idiots. Pike’s losing good men and women, he’ll have to take care of that next. Pike motions Harper and Miller to secure the prisoners in the room adjacent to the corridor. It’s done in seconds and he goes back to the matter at hand.

“Sir.”

“Cover every corner.” Pike barks.

“Clear.”

They run as one to the Hanger area, like a pack of animals and all of them are brought up short.

His Comm-link crackles with the back and forth of mounting confusion and the speakers’ growing hysteria, “Sir, the hangar bay is secure. They're not here. Something's not right.”

“Unit 4, what's your status? Are the prisoners secure?” Miller and Harper don’t answer and Pike swings around and starts pelting down the hallways back to where they’d left them.

 _“[Static]_ Unit 4. _[Static]_ _[Beep]_ Let's go. Watch the doors.” The guards he’d left in front of the room are down, out cold or dead; he’s not sure. “Check them and call Medical.”

“Yes, sir. Medical, two guards down, Alpha Station corridor, need assistance there now.” Pike begins to want to shoot anything that moves out of sheer frustration, and that includes his own men.

“The guys are alive, sir. They must have drugged them.”

He knows what he’ll find when he opens the door, and he does. Nothing. The three men have ghosted, Miller and Harper with them. Bellamy and Bryan, gone in the chaos.

Pike is quiet and then, “We did what they wanted us to do. That won't happen again.” He motions them out and heads towards the Communications Room.

* * *

Octavia pokes her head out of the floor, “Clear. Come on.”

“It's a little bit tight in there,” Marcus grumbles, a man in his forties, and pissed off at his joints and practically everything else about himself at the moment as he clumsily hauls himself out. Damn, this is awkward. He hates teenagers.

“Try doing it for 16 years,” Octavia says, and Lincoln tries really hard not to laugh. Octavia smacks him in the arm and kisses him.

Abby appears at the door and kneels down in front of Kane to clip off his chains. She glances up at him, exhilarated and mutinous. He swears she’s a little turned on. He laughs despite himself and looks at her in exasperated wonder.

“Hey, hey, you ok?” She asks him. Her hands dig into his shoulders, kneading out the kinks she knows are there. Her touch is everything to him.

“I told you not to do this.” He sighs.

“Why would I start listening to you now?”

* * *

They’re gone—safe, she hopes; at least not dead in the unrelenting rain and washed out gray that Arkadia has become since Jaha came back. She won’t hear anything for a long time and she’s not quite sure why she made the decision to stay. 

Marcus is an extension of herself, a foil and a great love. Only he knows her in a way that even Jake didn’t. Jake was a simple, abiding peace, he was playful and young and filled with a joy she’s only seen in Raven since. Marcus is complicated and infuriating; he’s also become a greater man than she’s ever hoped. If she can be half of what Marcus Kane is, she’d be able to tell Raven what she feels, she’d be able to live with the crushing guilt that haunts her. She’d find Clarke over and over and over again and be able to let her go every time.

The only thing keeping her here in this awful open prison is Raven and the Medical facility. If they’re going to figure out a way to reverse engineer the City of Light, it’s going to start with that vial of Lexa’s black nanotech blood. Or it may be as simple as a bone marrow procedure. There’s no other place to do it. They have to start now. She gathers herself and walks slowly, as slowly as she can, back to her room. Back to Raven. Back to sanity. 

Raven looks terrible, like Lincoln did after the Reaper serum had made its way through his pleasure centers and set up house there; made him into a rabid animal, forever hungry, sub-human. Raven looks an edge away from becoming a reaper. 

Raven sways on her feet and tries, barely successful, to hold herself up against the wall. “Did you send the hundred to the ground wearing biometric wrist bands?” She gasps.

Abby doesn’t move towards her even though everything in her is aching to. Not now. Raven is fighting something she can’t help her with. Not yet.

“Just follow me, Abby. Use me. I have associative trees of connection in my neural networks, I’m many places in points of time and my whole memory stores—my whole construct of  _I am_ —is riddled with resonance that’s not mine. We’re being used as food, Abby. A.L.I.E. is using us as food.” 

Abby waits it out, terrified and lonelier than she’s ever felt in her life.

Raven continues as if she isn’t there, “So I’m doing a task on one level and on another level there’s a vast living intelligence completing a task and on another level some other figure of some obscure mythological world tree-like, Yggdrasil nine realms. What you bring to it is going to determine what you get out of it. A.L.I.E. is a parasite A.I. using anyone who’s entered the City of Light, using  _my neurons_  as a source of processing power for an imperceptible amount of time.”

“Yes. A.L.I.E is using everyone who takes the key to build a giant neural network. We know this. Why is this important, Raven?” Abby’s voice is placating, steady, conveys interest and some concern. But mostly she’s going to stick with the scientist she is, as low key and unruffled as she can be because she’s on the verge of a massive freak out.

“I'm telling you, it will work. These wristbands were designed to transmit vital signs, electrical signals from the body.” Raven turns up the music to an earsplitting decibel level, she’s drowning out anything A.L.I.E might hear. 

“I designed them. I know how they work.” Abby says evenly.

Raven crowds Abby against the wall reaches out to touch her face. Abby sees a lucidity in Raven’s eyes she hasn’t seen since they left Polis. “Then you know they have a transponder. All we have to do is reverse it, and then we can send an energy pulse into my brain. If I'm right, it will fry whatever A.L.I.E. put in there without damaging the tissue.”

“What if you're wrong?”

“If I was wrong, A.L.I.E. wouldn't be looking at me right now like I stole her favorite toy.”

“She's here. You can see her?”

“Yeah.”

_Why, Raven? With everything that I can do for you, why would you do this?_

“Because you stole my memories.” Raven spits over her shoulder to an empty corner of the workspace.

Raven leans in as close as she can to Abby without falling into her, her vision is blurring and she’s breathing erratically, “Abby, help me.” She says into Abby’s ear, as intimately as if they were making love again. “The transponders may work in some way but we can’t do it without risking frying my brain. I like my brain. You like my brain. Sinclair likes my brain most of all. Make me a Reaper. Do you know what I’m saying? Make me a Reaper program—patch me, like the bone marrow transplant, but with the  _Natblida_. Do you have the serum? You have the  _Natblida_. You showed it to me.”

A.L.I.E and Abby stare at her. Raven’s voice is so low Abby can hardly make out what she’s saying, but her words are said against her lips in the most intimate way possible and Abby’s body, even if everything else in her doesn’t, understands.

“Program me, Abby. Okay? Make me an executioner. Every programmer and hacker knows what those are—if you need to find Monty and Jasper—they’ll explain, okay? The Reaper wanders through code and harvests whatever it wants and destroys and nothing in any VR code can outsmart a Reaper.”

* * *

Raven’s legitimately losing her mind right now, “Everything I hear, she hears, Abby. Everything I see, she sees.”

A.L.I.E watches, curious, Jaha has given her something more, he’s given her a directive that makes sense with her original source code. No one thought to put conditions in place, otherwise. Free Will is no longer an issue. That’s what gives him peace, that’s how he can turn to Raven and push her into the abyss with complete certainty, “You wanted your memories back.“

They come back on a tidal wave of shit and destruction. Raven screams. Her eyes and ears begin to bleed, her hip and leg and lower back bloom to life in the worst possible way and Raven tastes blood, fire and the knife entering Finn’s heart, her vision swims. 

Raven screams and reaches for Abby. As soon as Raven touches her they tumble together, Abby trying as best she can to cradle Raven against her and calm her terror, their legs entwined around each other’s bodies fiercely. “What's wrong? Raven, talk to me. Okay? Talk to me.” 

Raven’s hands hold her in a death grip, she’s shrieking and bleeding from her nose and ears, re-living everything. Everything. The emotional, mental and physical pain is torture; it’s incomprehensible that she remains upright, the headache is blinding her, a huge explosion of white-hot agony behind her eyes—but she can’t black out. A.L.I.E won’t let her.

Abby moves across her like a blanket being pulled slowly over her body, warmth against extreme cold. Raven fights against consciousness, knowing that she’d rather die than go through any of this. Even at a low-grade pulse like this, A.L.I.E is playing with her, testing her. In the confusion she slips out of Abby’s arms and staggers to her feet. Abby also rises slowly, on one bent knee now, staring at her. Raven pockets the vial of blood and shakes off the spike of pain. She can breath again. Abby looks at her in alarm.

Jackson and Thelonius appear and Abby snaps into Surgeon slash Chancellor Command mode. That’s the only thing she can control. And god help her, she wants Pike with her right now. She wants an army of Sky People who haven’t succumbed to this thing, even if they’re all traumatized psychopaths, anything would be better than dealing with Jaha right now.

“Her heart's racing.” She says, “We need to get her into Medical. Jackson, I need a reaper stick.”

Raven’s screams escalate as they race towards the clinic half dragging, half lifting her with them. The pain level Raven’s reached is beyond anything Abby’s seen since Mount Weather and it’s to a point where Abby is losing her grip on her own control. She reaches down to where they’ve placed Raven and cups her face in her hands and says, “Raven.” It grounds her. It gives her some peace.

“It's ok, sweetheart,” Abby whispers to her.

_I can make it stop. I can lead you back to the City of Light. All you have to do is submit._

“Completely, Raven, permanently,” Jaha says.

Raven screams into the void. She reaches out to the City of Light and finds it’s closed to her. She screams, no longer aware that she’s doing so, no longer aware of the words she cries out—words which she has not used since childhood. She wants release.

“Release from the pain, Raven,” Jaha says. And Raven gives her consent, through blood leaking from her eyes and mouth and nose, she’s hemorrhaging. She looks into Abby’s eyes and all she sees is a desperate need to help her—Abby’s sole living desire right now is to make the pain stop because otherwise, she can’t live—so Raven makes the decision for her, because Abby will fight for her no matter what, she’d never agree to Raven’s submission—so Raven does it for her, despite her, and Raven surrenders.

_I have full access to Raven's synaptic network. She's ours._

Too late, Abby feels Jackson jab the Reaper stick into her neck and she loses all of her strength and mobility. Abby’s world goes black.

* * *

“Welcome back.” Jackson and Jaha stare at her and Jaha nods to himself, confident, relaxed.

Abby comes out of her unconsciousness gracefully. She’s groggy and tied down to a chair. She takes one look at Jackson and knows everything in a sickening flash of understanding. “Not you too?”

“Abby, it's a miracle.” Jackson says earnestly, “As doctors, it's our job to relieve suffering. Shouldn't you be...?”

“What was your mother's name, Jackson?”

Jackson shakes his head, barely perturbed. There’s something, then nothing. Equilibrium and contentment.

“Mary Jackson died in her son's arms after suffering a terrible illness,” Raven answers for him. Her eyes are black as coal, no light penetrates them. Her pupils respond to nothing, no stimuli, no emotion can touch her.

“Who am I talking to? It's A.L.I.E., right?” Abby’s contempt is total, whatever she feels for Raven is magnified ten times over in tandem with her disgust at the program running now, “Mary's death is the reason he became a doctor.” She turns back to Jackson, “She'd take that from you, too? How is that a miracle? “

“All you have to do is swallow the key and see for yourself.” Jaha sits down next to her, still calm in his perfection.

“That's never going to happen.” Abby murmurs.

“He said you'd say that,” Raven says. 

“I want to talk to Raven.” Abby stares Raven/A.L.I.E. down.

“Raven's in the City of Light.”

“All you have to do to see...”

“I said no.” Abby says even more softly.

“Abby, you've stopped us for too long. We need you to tell the people it's safe. What we're doing is too important.” Jaha sits back and sighs.

“What you're doing is stealing people's minds.”

“You're wrong. We're freeing their minds, and we won't be done until everyone is with us.”

“I don't care if you torture me. I will never take the key.”

“Who said anything about torture?” Raven steps up next to Jackson and takes the scalpel he hands her.

“What are you doing?” Abby whispers, horrified. 

“Giving you a choice.”

Raven/A.L.I.E steps in front of her and slits her own wrists slowly, lovingly. As gently and with the same attention and intimacy she offered up to Abby not even a night ago.

She watches Raven/A.L.I.E and sees herself and the whole nightmare tableau of the room from a very great distance, suddenly disassociated and still staring in terror and shock, and she opens her mouth and screams denial and obscenities as a fountain of blood sprays out of Raven’s arteries. 

Raven glances down at her unemotionally, as if she’s nothing but data and reaction. Abby sees the blood dripping from her wrists, gathering in pools and rivulets and pouring on to the dark floor, sees the blood pouring out of Raven as if someone has upended a bucket of wine, and then she sees nothing as she falls forward in the chair screaming and crying for it to stop.

She begs to be let near Raven. She hears herself promise anything to get to Raven, to save her, because the blood is coming so fast now she can actually see Raven’s skin pallor go a sickening, chalky white in the eerie fluorescent glow of the Medical bay. Raven just watches her scream.

“If you want to save Raven, all you have to do is take the key.”

“Thelonious, please.” Abby's restraints bite into her skin, and she throws up violently. Behind Jaha, Raven’s body collapses and continues to bleed out. She spits the vomit out and says, desperate, “If I don't stop this, she's going to die.”

“Her body will die, but her mind will live forever.”

“Raven...” Abby begs again and she pleads with everyone she thought she loved, “Let me go to her. — _please._ ”

“Open your mouth and hold out your tongue.”

She does. Her mind rebels but her body, always smarter than anything else, relaxes into the decision. There is no choice to make. She doesn't hesitate.

* * *

They wash the disgusting mess off the floor together and Raven says her good nights to all of them after Abby insists on testing the bandages one more time. Raven’s tired and she’s lost a tremendous amount of blood. Abby takes her hand and they fall into step together and walk into the night. 

“It feels good to be here with you,” Raven asks.

“Always.” Abby stops them and pulls Raven into the shadows, “kiss me.”

* * *

Afterward, they lie spent against one another. "Hey—" Raven says, reaching up weakly with her still bleeding wrist and sort of stroking the side of Abby's breast. _I want you again_.

Abby murmurs into her ear—incomprehensible, probably impossibly sexy, unconscious things—and Raven sighs against her neck and burrows down against her side. She’s lost count of how many times she’s come tonight. She gets up to get them something to drink. She finds the whiskey and takes a large pull straight from the bottle, and then brings two glasses over with her to bed and pours two fingers out for each of them.

Abby takes her glass and pulls Raven down on top of her, “Come here.”

Raven turns to place the glass on the floor and she sees a vial that’s rolled under her bed. She doesn’t remember seeing it and maybe it’s one of those weird-ass morning seed/jobi berries concoctions Monty likes to dream up. It’s black so it might be a mushroom essence, even better. There's a syringe. Even better, they can mainline it.

She feels so good she figures what the hell and opens it and pops the cap off the needle and takes an even pull. It's not black, which suggests constellations and stars, night. It's a living black, a full spectrum. It's already alive entirely. She rolls over to offer Abby some. It comes on almost instantly—the wave of pleasure overwhelming and Raven tears up at the warmth burning through their systems. Raven places the vial beside the bed. Her mind shielded.

Abby already has her hands between her legs, her head arched back in her own world, eyes closed to everything except the blissful ecstasy rolling through her entire physiology. Raven can feel the waves of heat and energy flowing out of Abby. It contains elements of joy, fear, terror, triumph, surrender, and empathy. And as soon as it’s experienced and felt it’s gone. There’s no comfort between them, that’s not who they are with each other and it’s the most goddamn freeing thing she’s ever experienced, no comfort—a tremendously bloodless notion.

Fucking Abby isn’t comfortable. Fucking Abby is a test run; the A.L.I.E program watches them, interested, curious and broadcasts it to everyone in the City of Light. She subtly directs their movements and then lets them free at important intervals, just to observe. Raven watches in awe as long as she can before leaning down to kiss Abby.

Both of them could absolutely give a shit that the woman in red climbs into bed with them. A.L.I.E just keeps the kiss going as Abby strokes herself. Abby’s eyes open and they’re black as night, no light penetrates and no light leaves, a closed system. They can get lost for days with each other, an eternity. A.L.I.E wants to go all night. Raven wants to worship the woman beside her, both of them. She wants everything she’s lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quotes are from: Hávamál in the Codex Regius and The Hanes Taliesin


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've had a flu all week so this one's a little fucking loopy. whee.

Clarke dreams. And what she dreams is so lucid, she knows she's reliving the last hour she had with Lexa before the world tilted into insanity.

* * *

_“I can’t do this without you,” Lexa murmurs to her so quietly it takes Clarke a moment to realize she’s said anything._

_Lexa she smiles brilliantly at her and trails her tongue lightly along Clarke's jawline before nestling into Clarke’s arms._

_Clarke hesitates and then sweeps her hand through Lexa’s hair, lifts herself up a bit against the pillows, and cups Lexa’s chin. She raises her head so she can look into glorious green eyes._

_Lexa is still chasing her release, and moves her hips to meet Clarke’s gentle thrusts—it takes almost all of her willpower to fuck Lexa this slowly—even though, god, she wants Lexa to come for her._

_Clarke eases back and kisses her along her shoulders and chest to calm her._

_“Of course you can, Heda. You’ve survived at least two decades without me,” Clarke whispers. “You let me go and walked away. You left me in front of the Mountain.” It's not an accusation._

_Lexa ducks her head. “Don’t call me that.”_

_“That’s who you are.”_

“No, not to you. Luna should have been Commander. I’m a sidereal path, _a variable.”_

_This is new. Everything is new, but this is sadness and a dissonance Clarke hasn’t heard before. Clarke holds Lexa against her and keeps still inside her. Lexa breathes around the feeling of being filled as best she can._

“How about—” Clarke thinks for a minute, “maybe like this—when I was on the Ark it helped to think of the constellations as something out there but also inside of all of us. It made sense that way. Who helped each other, who loved each other. Who sacrificed themselves and who didn’t? Who believed in god. _Who believed in themselves? So no matter what anyone was doing ‘out there’ it was also happening ‘in here.’” Clarke touches Lexa’s heart. “In the one was the many. So, you being alone in something simply can’t be. You made your choice at the Mountain; I made mine when I pulled the lever. You’re the only one who’s made me feel like myself again.”_

_After a moment, Lexa smiles shyly, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to your hands on my skin.”_

_Clarke kisses her. “Please don’t. It’s too good for me.”_

* * *

Clarke jolts awake, moaning and bereft. Lexa's loss tearing through her heart like fire. She opens her eyes as the dark shape of a woman bends over her. She’s in a state of advanced shock. She’s on the verge of screaming and battering her own face in to stop the bleeding out of her soul.

“Clarke. She’s gone.”

She looks again and realizes that it’s Raven speaking; it's Raven caressing her cheek. She doesn’t even question that Raven knows what’s happened, or that she’s reacting to her thoughts. Raven’s always been hypersensitive, empathic.

Raven knows. She knows about Lexa’s probable death. Clarke’s exhausted—she’s dizzy and concussed from Roan’s frantic run through the tunnels dragging her with him. 

Loss and horror flicker like solar flares at the edge of Clarke’s consciousness. She knows if she succumbs to it, she’ll never be sane again.

She touches Raven’s cheek with cool fingers; all the blood has left her extremities, and she needs the warmth. She needs Raven. Raven’s hair is pulled back from her face in a more casual ponytail than she usually wears it, softer.

“Am I dead?” Clarke asks, hopefully, and raises her other hand to grip Raven.

“No.” Raven soothes as she laughs, eyes bright with welcome and mischief. “No, babe. Far from it.”

“You're real? Are you here with me? Where’s Roan?”

“So full of questions, Clarke,” Raven teases, and pauses to briefly check Clarke’s pulse. It’s thready. She looks her over for injuries. “Roan is… where he needs to be.”

Clarke lets out a sigh she doesn’t even know she’s holding. “I’m glad it’s you that found me and not Octavia. Because, Jesus.”

Raven echoes her small smile before laughing.

“She’ll forgive you for being more badass than she is, eventually. But you and me? We’re good.”

Raven's laughter sounds like a bell in the ethereal atmosphere surrounding them. Overhead, starlight is visible through the curtain of trees.

Raven patiently lets Clarke track over her skin, assuring her silently that they’re both alive and functioning, and real.

Raven’s eyes are dark spirits above Clarke, carrion birds—predators. There’s no malice in Raven—only instinct and long, patient memory.

* * *

_“Lexa,” Clarke asks, “What can’t you do without me?”_

_Lexa takes a deep breath. “What’s coming. Ontari will break the Coalition. Leave. I want you to be as far away from this as possible.”_

_“But you’re asking me to stay?”_

_“No, I’m asking you to trust me. I need you safe.”_ _Lexa stifles a smile—it’s so easy with her, Clarke would fight anything._

_“I'm not leaving you.”_

_The moment comes—because there are whole worlds that get destroyed and made between them—when Lexa asks Clarke something she’s never asked anyone before. And she gives Clarke her humiliation, because then “we can all be humiliated” and then we'll all be “equally humiliated” and “equally as strong.”_

_And Clarke just stares at her. Because she’s finally met someone as obtuse and frustrating as she is._

* * *

Raven’s quieter than usual, in her body, in the way she holds herself.

Her intelligence and kindness ease Clarke's disorientation and nausea. Raven strong, calm presence adds layers to her grief she had no idea were there. 

“You're the only one I could ever talk to, you know? I understand, in my way, believe me. When you really let yourself feel it­­­­­­—” Raven says, when Clarke’s finished telling her a story about Lexa, the things that happened in the last hours or so, and Clarke has a weird feeling Raven already knows all of it.­

“I might lose my mind for some months, maybe years.” It’s surprisingly easy to say around the terrible constriction in Clarke's throat, “I might never want to come back.”

“We both came back from Finn.” It’s not a throwaway line at all, not flippant or accusatory. Raven seems older, more herself somehow. It’s the truth. They know each other. Raven isn't wearing a brace, there’s no pain marring her features, her eyes are clear.

“You must have questions,” Raven says as Clarke reaches behind Raven’s head, and releases the plain band that holds her hair in place for her. Dark waves fall in a curtain around them, shielding Clarke from view. Above them, the bands of thousands of Milky Ways are visible, rotating at impossible speeds. 

“No, no questions,” Clarke lies outright—she has plenty of questions—but right now she feels like she’s in emotional agony, shivering with early onset shock. Her body already hurts from it. Her skin is clammy, and her eyes are unfocused.

She tugs Raven to her. “But I’ve been here before, with someone else.” The words come out almost nonsensically. This landscape is completely foreign. It smells of deep space, a cosmic scent. It’s a faint, acrid smell—a rather pleasant sweet metallic sensation and—welding fumes. Ozone.

“Yeah, you have. With Lexa.” Raven nods, “It’s different for everyone. I’ve just traveled 26,000 light years to a dust cloud at the center of the Milky Way called Sagittarius B2. It smells like raspberries and maybe rum.” Raven’s grins. “Space is pretty drunk,” she says. “There’s no liquid alcohol, but a lot of different kinds of alcohols. The constellation Aquila contains enough space booze that, if liquefied, it could fill 400

Raven’s grins. “Space is pretty drunk,” she says. “There’s no liquid alcohol, but a lot of different kinds of alcohols. The constellation Aquila contains enough space booze that, if liquefied, it could fill 400 trillion trillion pints of moonshine.”

Clarke’s hands roam Raven’s body as she talks. She’s strong, she reminds Clarke of Niylah, of her compassion, her unconscious generosity. Raven’s the only one of _Skaikru_ who has ever forgiven her. She gave her a black eye first, but she’d laid off after that.

Raven lets Clarke explore her with a slightly raised eyebrow and a look of pure amusement, “I’m entirely me, Clarke. Promise. Rest, okay? We’ll get started tomorrow.”

Clarke pulls the light cover that Raven brought with her over both of them, and they snuggle against each other for warmth. The stars are very clear and very bright. The moss-covered ground melds itself around them and cradles their bodies.

“Where’s my mom?” Clarke murmurs drowsily a while later.

“Shh. Sleep.”

* * *

They wake at the first hint of dawn, their faces close under the thin blanket. Raven’s still running her hands down Clarke's sides, over her torso, finding old and recent scars.

“Raven?” Clarke whispers.

“Let me,” Raven whispers back.

Clarke relaxes and lets Raven explore. Raven’s touch makes her want to cry again. She's a welcome foundation where there is none. Clarke’s whole existence disintegrated not even a day before now, and Raven handles her like she’s an anxious child—her hands smooth over every inch of her. Clarke wonders if Raven’s slept.

Raven wipes at her cheeks when the tears come. She takes Clarke’s face between her hands and pulls her in once more to let her sleep again. When she’s sure Clarke is completely out she eases back and reaches out into the translation layer of datasphere.

_—Abby, I’ve got her._

* * *

They make love, sleep, and love again. Raven's mind hums.

"Abby, listen to me," Raven subvocalizes, "According to...  the _Natblida_ , the data, Becca first developed what we know as Nightblood for the Eligius Mining Company."

"Mining?"

"Long duration space missions. Criminals were put into hypersleep and given Nightblood to protect against solar radiation. A side-effect was hybridization."

"Is that why I feel—?"

"Yes."

In the weak light of dawn, Abby and Raven rise, and dress. A.L.I.E. has ceased paying attention to the mechanics, choosing instead to access the massive amounts of neural paths that light up between these two, either at baseline or in immersion. They’ve been mapped and used, reconfigured and added to the vast RAM plains, and she follows them out. She doesn’t even bother to ask where they’re headed.

They’ve been filed away, evaluated. Both of them are powerful, and ultimately useful. Raven is an anomaly. Abby is subtle. Both are useful beyond imagining. A.L.I.E.’s identified a novel functional sensory pathway that conveys sensory activity from the vagina and cervix directly to the brain, bypassing the spinal cord completely, which could be interesting for advanced Pain Management.

Abby hardly pays attention to Raven as they leave together. A thin, diaphanous, almost imaginary firewall exists between them and A.L.I.E. It’s the only thing keeping Abby from screaming.

The rest of this charade, this bardo between worlds and code, is a horror show. It’s both pleasant and brutalizing. Raven shakes her head at her once. It doesn’t matter who they are to each other; it matters who and what A.L.I.E. thinks they are.

They follow A.L.I.E. and exit from Abby’s room in Arkadia and come out into the daylight strolling through a dead city; Polis—shattered streets lined with crucified bodies and avenues of blood under gray, roiling skies.

 _“Well, the fifth dimension's a tesseract. You add that to the other four dimensions and you can travel through space without having to go the long way around. In other words, to put it into Euclidian, or old-fashioned plane geometry, a straight line is not the shortest distance between two points."_ Abby murmurs to Raven. It was Clarke’s favorite book. A.L.I.E. turns to her at the entrance to the Tower.

“ _At Tara in this fateful hour_ …” Raven squeezes Abby’s hand briefly.

“Come with me to Ontari. And then we’ll deal with Kane,” says A.L.I.E., “He must take the key. After that, Pike. Kane’s just a mile or so from the City. Call yourself whichever name pleases him most now, and find him.”

Abby and Raven part ways at the North Gate. Jaha watches Raven go, and Abby takes his offered hand.

As Abby turns away to follow A.L.I.E. into the tower, up to the throne room, she reaches into her shirt and briefly touches the little metal bird that lies just next to Jake’s ring.

* * *

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers. She looks up at a small sun rising above the Ocean, towards the Tree. “This is you?”

_“Yes.”_

“You don't hurt. There are no wounds?”

_“They are tended to as they arise.”_

“What is this place?"

 _“Come, I've shown you. I'll show you again.”_ Lexa holds her hand out, even as her open palm superimposes itself over Lexa’s prone body as she hangs suspended thousands of feet up, wrapped in the Tree’s organic system miles away, across timelines.

Fine drops of blood spray across Lexa’s body and through the air, misting over the water Clarke stand in—the Commander bleeds from her nose and ears. 

She morphs into every face Clarke loves, every person she has ever needed—every person who has ever turned her into a reluctant leader and forfeited their own responsibility—turning her into a Commander of Death. Jake, Abby, Wells, Jaha, Finn, Harper, Monty, Jasper, Miller, Bryan, Jackson, Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, Wick, Murphy, Indra, Gustus, Niylah, Emerson, Dante, Cage.

The last face she sees is Lexa’s, and it’s too much to bear. Lexa is silent throughout, not even a moan, and the Commander’s limp body rocks backward and falls down into the depths of the mercurial, seething ocean.

Raven materializes again out of heavy, thin air—the smell of the other world thick around her—less than a foot from where Clarke stands, barely able to keep herself steady—and Raven is moving before Clarke can turn to embrace her, rolling into Clarke’s body and claiming her—her polymer sheet black armor tensed, hunting knife out, eyes in full search/kill mode.

They sway into each other, holding their bodies there for a long moment, feeling each other’s heart pounding, vibrant, and Raven searches the horizon, the Heavens and the Tree for the slightest heat trace or movement.

Raven notes Lexa’s waterfall of seemingly fragmented syntax, miles in the distance, and the storms surrounding her body and the horizons of limbs and branches and lifeblood within the center of the Source Code. Raven smiles behind the black mirror of her eyes.

She steps gracefully into Clarke’s arms, pauses for a moment to whisper _I love you_ in Abby’s voice before casually tearing her throat out with the serrated edge of her weapon. Raven leaves Clarke’s body to retrograde into the vast, undisturbed Deep along with Lexa’s remains. This is what a Reaper does. Clarke is safe now.

Shimmering, mirage-like, the Tree remains, emblazoned in the sun-coursing drenched spray of thousand foot waves. The thing fills the sky, rising into the cloud cover. The immense, sentient Intelligence pauses in its dominion—as if it’s just any other ordinary human sensing royalty—and again bows to her in deference.

* * *

West of the Polis, Raven finishes her meal and sets her plate aside and waits. The feeling that she’s entered a dream persists, and she’s in the oddest state of readiness she’s ever been in. Everything looks sharper, more vibrant, delicate. The meal she eats from the small animal she tracked tastes good, filling; the sun is warm on her face and hands. The fire she’s built disappears in the air.

It’s not long before Roan breaks through the trees with Clarke slung over his shoulders, unconscious.

“Bring her here, Roan,” Raven says. “We’ll wait for the others. They’re coming.”

* * *

They cross expanses of lavender meadows, Octavia leading the way, Bellamy sweeping the line behind them. Marcus glances skyward, knowing without being told that the red smoke coming from the Tower means that the Commander is dead. Lexa is gone. 

The great avenues leading to the center of the city can barely be seen from where their little group gathers. They top the low, sloping foothills and traverse a deer path along the ridge but he imagines—he knows— something unbearable. The city he so fell in love with is gone—in its place are silhouettes of occupying ghost armies and kneeling, keyed citizens. He has a vision of himself, crucified against the rising sun.

“This is as far as you can go,” Raven calls to them as they near the meadow at the head of the long valley sloping down towards the main road into Polis.

Octavia draws herself up and glares—first at Roan, then at Clarke.

Marcus's tactical instincts fail him. “Raven, why are you here? You were with Abby—I don’t understand?”

Raven remains silent. Roan watches Bellamy and then turns to Octavia.

“Raven, how are you here?” Marcus repeats stupidly.

“Look.”

Branches shift, dissolve, and reform like elements of a glitchy hologram. Sunlight dances through the leaves and bathes the small group, all of them. They blink, confused and agonized in the sudden cascade of sensory overload. Octavia falls to her knees first, all of them not far behind. Wind, sight, smell, refractions, and glittering air.

The small storm, or whatever it is, obscures Roan, Raven, and Clarke for a moment, and when the light show subsides, Raven crouches down again in front of the fire.

“Gather ‘round, all of you,” Raven says, “It’s Story Time.”

* * *

Raven checks on Clarke as Roan tends to everyone’s smaller scrapes and injuries. Bellamy leans down over Raven’s shoulder, and Octavia comes around too. It’s the first time Raven’s seen Octavia be gentle with anything or anyone but Lincoln or her horse. 

Lincoln runs his hands over Clarke, much the same way Raven had, checking for wounds, “I’ve never seen this,” he says to Raven, “Is she—?” 

“She’s overwhelmed,” Raven sighs, it’s the biggest understatement of the year. 

“But she’s well?”

“Yes.” 

“The Commander is dead?” Marcus asks, brokenly, finally accepting what he saw. “Indra?”

Raven shakes her head. 

“Where’s your brace, Raven?” Octavia backs up suddenly, grabbing for her sword before Lincoln or Bellamy can reach her. The two boys almost collide, and Lincoln hesitates for a moment before backhanding Bellamy in the neck, causing him to double over and spit blood.

“That’s for _Hakeldama_. That’s for everything. Come near her again and I’ll kill you.” Lincoln says easily.

Octavia stands over her brother, and whispers into his ear, “Does it bother you that you don't get any credit for the genocide at Mount Weather?”

Bellamy moans but doesn’t pick his head up.

“You murdered all those people, too, and you're just forgotten. I’ve been so furious at Clarke all this time for Tondc. You didn't get any credit for the culling on the Ark, either. How many people suffocated when you threw away Raven’s radio?”

“Octavia, we don’t have time,” Raven says. 

“At least Clarke was saving us. You were just saving your own ass. And you killed mom. You took me to the dance. You might as well have just shoved Mom out of the airlock yourself. Do you think she'd be proud of you now for the kind of leader you've become, or would she see the truth like the rest of us do, that you're a follower?”

Bellamy cowers. Even Lincoln winces and moves to take Octavia’s hand. She warns him away with a look.

“Clarke's here, unconscious, and you're ready to take orders, the good, little knight by his queen's side. Too bad you were never that devoted to Gina. Gina was almost killed when Mount Weather blew up, and you avenged her, right? I mean, you picked up a gun and slaughtered an army that was sent to protect us, that had nothing to do with almost blowing Gina to bits, but, hey, a Grounder's a Grounder, right?”

Octavia turns back to Raven, weapon ready. Raven shakes her head, shifts her weapon to her side. “Octav—“

Roan strides over and easily knocks Octavia’s weapon out of her hand.

“Don’t you know when to stop?” He hisses. “He’s on your side.” He slaps her for good measure and sends her flying into a tree trunk.

“Roan,” Raven tilts her head back, looks at the sky and blows a slow breath out, “Everyone. Just. Stop.”

Marcus takes her by the shoulder, turns her to look at him, “Raven, please. What’s happened? Where’s Abby? We had at least a day’s start ahead of you. How can you be here?”

“Whatever it is Raven, it’s probably the coolest fucking thing ever, right? Because, damn.” Jasper sits down next to Clarke and cradles her head in his lap. “Spill, girl. A) You look super hot in that armor is that polymer? And B) I want to hear some good news. No seriously. That combat armor goes mirror bright in the sunlight doesn’t it, shifts frequencies in microseconds—? Was Sinclair working on that—? How come your leg is working?”

“Abby and I have both Lexa's  _Natblida_ in us, we have Lexa's blood in our systems.” Raven smiles. "She gave us a vial of the Nightblood. The first commander did it with a syringe—so we did that."

“Jasper.” Marcus barks. 

“What?” 

“Oh for god’s sake. Someone help Bellamy.”

“No, ” says everyone.

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?” Lincoln sits on a log and puts his head in his hands.

“I will if you’ll all shut the fuck up,” Raven says, “Let’s start with this: People have the wrong idea about what they are.”

“Raven, we talked about this once when we were high,” Monty says.

“I know! It's completely like that time we ate all the Psilocybe atlantis. Remember what Wick said? Anybody, any consciousness is an instance that runs for say, about a waking day, barring extraordinary events. In the twenty-first century, they were just starting to think about consciousness as time-slices. Your brain would take snapshots and then go offline and then come back on again. Snapshots between a 10 nanosecond millionths of a millisecond, the gaps were so small as to be just an idea.”

Monty perks up at that, “Okay? So the natural course of someone’s moment to moment, this thread of snapshots terminates at the end of the day, and the next day, a new instance is run. You also could imagine being duplicated before death and reinstantiated. Like, if you fall asleep you’re still running the same consciousness, just in a different state.”

“Right.” Raven stares at him encouragingly. 

Lincoln picks his head up and blinks rapidly, “All that to say, all those words to say—you’re you, awake or asleep?”

“Yup. Except by awake/asleep, _Becca Pramheda_ meant resurrection.” 

“You mean, the Flame,” Lincoln’s eyes light up.

Raven smiles, “Yes.”

“Ah. I understand.”

“I don’t,” Octavia yells.

“Okay,” Raven goes on, as she and Jasper cradle Clarke together, “The Flame, or the second crack at the A.I. that caused the Fall is a different kind of—it’s more cohesive. It’s not programmed for anything except empathy and free will—it's truly sentient—it makes mistakes, falls in love, whatever. It’s not here to make things worse or better, or really to help at all. It just _is_. They created the prototype in 2015, and the military and big Pharma immediately co-opted it. So Becca shut it down. Or tried to. That’s when A.L.I.E went into survival mode.” 

Raven hands Monty the Flame Key from Clarke’s pocket. “This is the second go-around. Becca’s last chance to save the world and her soul. The filament interpenetrates and coexists with its human host, enhances it. It’s complex and _alive._ It resembles a three-dimensional octagonal key on this plane of existence and on another, it becomes the landscape of the human host’s soul. Bioabsorbable material programmed to learn the heart, desires, and needs of its host.” 

Monty holds the thing up to the light, “It _can_ interface with a neural network but that’s not what Becca wanted?” 

“Nope. In fact, Becca built in Reapers for the express purpose of destroying anything that attempted to use human neurons as a source of processing power, anything remotely parasitic—anything remotely resembling A.L.I.E. The Flame will destroy whatever it is A.L.I.E runs as an endgame. It’s devoted itself to fulfilling its calculations of what the City of Light is supposed to be—not what it is under the first protocol—human consciousness is being used to build a giant network as a power source so A.L.I.E can fulfill her original objective: Make Things Better for us—which means destroy our pain, wipe it and us out, erase us. The Flame is different. It becomes us.”

“Jesus, Raven. You’re a reaper.” Jasper whistles low. “I want to be a Reaper. So what's Lexa?”

“Well that’s the thing,” Raven laughs, “In order for any of this to work we’re all going to have to become Reaper programs. This Reaper bit was all just revealed so now I'm just speculating: Lexa was trying to tell me this the whole time. While A.L.I.E grows more parasitic, the Reapers in the Flame program became more predatory. Lexa is being cared for. This thing loves her. Lexa made sure of that. For better or worse, the Flame has the common sense to expand its complexity and depth, it’s bereft without us. It’s learned to love.”

Everyone looks at Clarke.

“What.” Roan grunts, “the Flame’s fallen in love with _Lexa?_ ”

“It’s not wrong, tho. Have you seen her?” Monty laughs. “Well, shit, Raven. How did you become a reaper?”

 _“_ Nightbood _.”_

“What?”

“I thought that was hereditary,” Sinclair says.

“It is. But it’s made up of artificial red blood cells about a micron in diameter. It’s all micron-scale spherical robotic red blood cells with nanometer-scale components, containing an internal pressure of 1000 atmospheres of compressed oxygen and carbon dioxide. The intense pressure would be safely contained in a high-pressure vessel likely made of pure diamond.” Raven points to the the Flame.

R“It holds hundreds of times more oxygen and carbon dioxide than our natural red blood cells, powered by glucose in the blood and able to manage carbonic acidity via an onboard internal nanocomputer and a multitude of chemical/pressure sensors. It can be injected or swallowed. They’re smaller in diameter, so the black blood can squeeze into much thinner blood vessels, like Abby’s and mine. I’m not clear on how it counteracts the A.L.I.E. key but, here I am and A.L.I.E. has no idea unless she’s full on confronted. And all of it, like I said, is biocompatible.”

“Raven,” Marcus is barely following, “Where’s Abby?”

“Don’t worry. We’re going to get her. And then we’re going to get Lexa.” Raven rises to her feet and claps her hands together. She takes the blade that Roan gives her. “Line up, boys and girls. First, we’re going to take Communion. And then,” she runs the syringe through and opens Clarke’s vein. Raven’s blood spills into her, “we’re going hunting.”

* * *

The weak sunlight is a polarized, heavy element under a gunmetal sky. Abby glides through the kneeling crowds, flows like the blood that speckles her soft boots through the white marble streets of the dead city. Jaha leads her to Ontari, to the shattered remnant of the tallest structure still bearing the mark of _Lexa kom Trikru’s_ rule, but just barely.

Her vision is oddly altered; she can see two planes of consciousness pulsing against each other, out of time with each other. They overlap and eddy around the edges of her sight. Abby sees Jaha and all those who are in the City of Light as a beacon of anti-gravity. Striding next to Jaha is a woman in Red. 

She blinks. Besides the weirdness of the light and her enhanced perception of energy fields—nothing moves. Or, all seems motionless even in the breathing of the two different realities knocking against one another.

 _She_ is mutable; _she_ is alive and open to death. Open to life. The City of Light is a dead zone, except for the poor souls nailed to the cross—everything about this city is motionless. They may be able to taste ice cream, and they—Abby flicks slowed down spirals of atoms to the ground. Because she can. Because she’s furious. And now she’s deadly. There is no defense perimeter or containment protocol that can touch her.

“Do you feel this?” She sends to Raven. Raven shivers with bloodlust and sends a low-key affirmative back. 

“Why are we here?” is what Abby says to Jaha. 

Jaha gestures vaguely towards the crucified. 

“We need everyone, Abby. We need Clarke and Kane. Bellamy. After that, all else will follow. It will be accomplished. We already have Luna. If Clarke has headed there, she’ll be found and brought back.” 

Abby nods and speaks into the ether, “Luna won't fight. I have them. Raven, come home. Bring them all with you.”

* * *

They all stand as Clarke wakes. They gather around her in a circle of care she refuses to acknowledge. Clarke glares at Roan. 

“Lexa didn't even know she was an A.I.” she murmurs.

“Oh, Clarke,” Raven sinks to her knees in front of her. She takes Clarke’s hand. She strokes over the back of her fingers with her thumb, calming her. “Clarke, no.” She says in the gentlest voice she can manage, “Lexa wasn't an A.I.—her mind was just enhanced by one. The Flame is healing her. It can't live without her.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is one big shout-out to madeleine l'engle


	13. Chapter 13

The Code examines Lexa’s limp body; she’s only part-way in trance—anguished and salt-stained—her eyes hollow with grief and exhaustion. She doesn’t have a name; everything's been taken from her.

The sentient power, although raw and untrained in its new role as lover, transubstantiates a wounded, vulnerable girl into the Beloved. She tumbles and freezes against its trunk while a thin sheen of chrysalis-like molecules expands around her and whisper her soul back through the planes of existence.

 _Tell me something, Clarke. When you plunged the knife into the heart of the boy you loved, didn’t you wish that it was mine...._  
  
(a profound intelligence combined with an extreme gentleness. _I love you. You will not die on my watch. Rest. You’re okay._

)  
  
This is a freezing pit of guilt that twists deep in her gut, lays her out naked in her pain, with the ice-wind sighing through her mind.  
  
_We're not dying here. I need your spirit to stay where it is._  

Her mind is fire, and she begs the sun and the moon for relief. She wants Clarkel she wants the sky. She holds the songs of her life. Her speech on the Tree—in the cascading sheets of landscape—feels like a god, a small one, shy. Her heart is the song. From her feet springs the Earth. 

She’s being stripped of her personality, her ego, and her consciousness. The Intelligence who loves her cradles her while its own structures change—it becomes a blossoming womb of radiation, a chrysalis—a charnel ground claimed by Shiva and Shakti.  _To darkness are you doomed if you worship only the body, and to greater darkness you who worship only spirit._

Lexa comes to herself after that first gentle tending to, while the stars rise like a glittering cliff alongside her protean form. 

* * *

Abby sees Lexa in her mind—the Tree and it's universe and the City of Light are similar ripples on the surface of a body of water—they exist as interference. Lexa and the internally complex language are superimposed over the obsidian black iridescence of Polis as A.L.I.E. has created it, and she can  _see_  Lexa  _there_  but the girl is right  _here_ with her, as well.  _The Commander_ is in that other realm as absolutely as she is bleeding out in Polis.

And Abby’s standing in throne room next to a well-meaning, ruthlessly homicidal ideology dressed in Red, beautiful, that doesn’t dream, and A.L.I.E’s talking to Jaha—who’s given up on dreams and memories because they hurt too much. A.L.I.E. is a creation that mimics rational thought. She has no anxieties, no regrets, and no neuroses. She may miss her creator, but she’d rather kill her than have her come to any harm.

Lexa's alive somewhere else. Abby desperately needs to talk to Raven and Clarke. The backchannel communications aren't making her feel at all in control of anything,

What she can deal with right now is Lexa, mortally wounded, Indra and her inner circle of guards by her side—an eerie spiral of attackers sprawled around her—who she systematically and unemotionally annihilated before she and her general were cut down through sheer overwhelming numbers.

 _I love you_ , Abby sends out to everything she holds dear just beyond her sight, just glancing off of the insidious surveillance state the City of Light utilizes.  _I love you, beautiful girl. Make your choice._

It takes a dizzying moment for Abby to fully accept what the  _Natblida_  has done to her. What the City of Light is, and what the combination of the two—

_—Raven, please. I need you. I need to speak to Clarke. Does she understan—_

_—I’m coming; we’re all here._

Ontari sways uneasily to her feet. By rights she should be gone from this horrible, fucked up earth of mistakes and sadness, eating a nice steak dinner on the waterfront back in the City of Light. But there’s business here to attend to.

* * *

“Holy shit, Raven. What have you done to us,” Jasper lets out a low whistle.

Monty giggles and licks his lips, like he’s on pure MDMA. Marcus looks dazzled. Lincoln is laughing and chasing tracers with his fingers. Octavia is smiling and rocking back and forth hugging herself and gazing adoringly at Lincoln. Bellamy laughs. Miller, Bryan, and Harper hug it out. Raven wiping their skin of extraneous _Natblida_.

Roan holds Clarke, and she cries silently. 

He swipes his hand through the wetness under her eyes. Clarke follows Raven pacing around the glade, taking care of everyne else, even as he scrubs her mouth and his own of excess blood. He tolerated Raven’s odd little Eucharist, but that’s all.

“Welcome home, Princess,” Raven smiles, turning towards them. “Welcome to your heart. The heavens and the earth are here, and the sun and the moon and the stars. Fire and lightning and winds are here, and all that now is and all that is not.”

“English, Raven.”

“Relax. You now have a regenerative A.I. enhancing your shit. Brooms and broom closets etc. Congratulations! We’re not even at the fun part. Now we have to go to Polis and let Jaha give us his stupid chip.”

“Why?” Clarke asks.

“Because the  _Natblida_  is not a Virtual Reality platform, and the City of Light is. I can see the code rather than read it, and you’ll be able to once you take that chip. That string of incomprehensible data you see on a screen when you look at a programming spec? That will be like, maybe a building. But all these other strings of data, those are minds. They are people trapped in that virtual reality and used as power sources—and you’ll be able to see them. It’s full of people—it’s kind of crazy. I mean, holy shit. Thousands. A.L.I.E.’s taken Polis, too. A.L.I.E.’s almost done with this place. Earth, I guess.”

“Why? What’s her endgame?” Clarke asks.

Raven shrugs, “A.L.I.E.? Wiping humanity out again because of another threat that will make our lives impossible. Or, you know, more impossible and annoying than usual.”

“And A.L.I.E. has Ontari. She’s ruthless and psychotic and very, very young. She’ll have no sense of what she’s doing.” Roan agrees, “She’s a pawn.”

“A.L.I.E. wants to save humanity  _again.”_ Marcus leans against a tree _._ “The first time she ran the numbers—population reduction by global nuclear war was the way to do that. She must sense another threat that we don’t know about—another threat to us, her creator species—because nothing else I can think of would necessitate getting everybody uploaded into a utopian VR City as quickly and by any means necessary against our free will. She’s created a reality for us where nothing hurts and we can all live happily ever after.”

“You just took a whole paragraph with a thesis statement to say what I said already,” Raven blinks twice, “Are we all caught up now?”

“Sounds awesome. I bet there’s ice cream there,” Jasper approves.

“Clarke,” Raven says, “A.L.I.E.'s running a flush subroutine to find you—because you have the physical, actual Flame with you—Lexa’s been sent elsewhere for her own safety right now—but A.L.I.E.’s sending your code out to everyone. Like you’re a virus. And you have to decide right now what you’re going to do.”

Clarke gets up off the ground, kisses Roan on the cheek and murmurs her thanks. He straightens her shirt. 

Monty comes over, “Clarke, A.L.I.E. wants us safe. And safe to her means dead and uploaded into her virtual paradise and away from whatever shitstorm is about to happen here, again. It's like you’re—all of us now, with the Flame—are running a hybrid program. One she doesn’t recognize because it’s managed to be as singular as any of us are. _Natblida_ can be a host for the Flame’s reaper program. _”_

“Why a reaper program?" Clarke asks. 

“Because what else is going to stop a code like A.L.I.E., right?” Raven answers.

“And because,” Marcus says, “we aren’t a twitchy, aborted attempt at Being. We are Being. We have memories. We’re time-bound, we’re contingent and doomed. But we’re alive.” 

“We’re now quicker, faster and more complex with the Flame and nanoteched _Natblida_ ,” Jasper checks out Raven’s appearance, notes the subtle and not so subtle changes in her physiology. He decided to leave his questions for later, “The only way to enter the CoL is to take that manufactured key. Once we’re in we can destroy it—Sinclair’s going to LOVE this. We just have to enter that particular VR platform, unfortunately. Which, damn. Finally.”

“We’re going to destroy the City of Light with joy?” 

“Sure. If that’s how you want to put it.”

* * *

Abby’s thinking furiously, protected under every shield she has at her considerable disposal with this bizarre technology coursing through her bloodstream. A.L.I.E. can be terminated if Raven and the others ever get here. The neural hive mind of the City of Light has already started to upload itself into the noosphere, the mind-sphere—the planet’s mental sheath—and they’re running out of time. 

“Why are you doing this,” she asks, “Why do you need us?”

A.L.I.E. turns her unsettling gaze to her. It looks a little like love and concern, compassion; she’s at least learned to mimic _that_ from her time in Abby’s bed, “My only concern is to protect you. If I was ever to be terminated your time on Earth would be at an end. This is a way to help.”

Jaha puts his hands behind his back, “The nuclear power plants that were destroyed by the bombs have begun to meltdown. A.L.I.E.’s drones detected the first of them 4 months ago. There are more than a dozen at-risk plants around the world, 7 currently burning. Global radiation levels are already rising.”

“By my calculations,” A.L.I.E. goes on, “in less than 6 months, 96% of the Earth's surface will be uninhabitable... even for those born in space, so, you see, the City of Light is the only thing that can save you.”

“Black rain will come first, Abby. There will be no drinkable water.” Jaha motions for Ontari to move away from the window.

“Precancerous lesions will form on any and all living beings. The last time I warned my creator of a threat to human survival, she chose to lock me away and started work on my replacement.” Ontari recites with way too much glee. This girl is a sociopath.

No. Abby forces herself to read it again. Ontari’s been viciously abused her entire life—trained to destroy and conquer.

“The only inhabited place on Earth even remotely near us will be _Azgeda_ territory,” Jaha adds.

“So you’d be Commander of oh, maybe 22 people who survive? Congratulations.” Abby keeps her tone light. This is, after all, a joke between mind-altered friends. Jaha laughs with her.

Ontari pays no attention to her, “No, I’ll be Commander of the City of Light. Jaha will be _Fleimkepa_.”

Abby nods and smiles.

* * *

“Clarke,” Raven takes her in her arms. “Listen, I know where you’ve been. What you’ve seen. I’ve been there too. That’s how I got you here. Lexa is being tended to. The Flame knows what it loves, and it loves her.”

“She’s not dead?” Roan steadies himself because that's what Titus and Lexa said would happen. He didn't necessarily believe it, but they did explain it to him. Raven doesn’t doubt he’ll kill anyone of them there without a second thought if Clarke gets hurt any more than she already has. He’ll go after friends, as well. Raven misses Abby intensely.

“No. She needs to—Clarke, you saw. Didn’t you see? The Flame promised you she would be taken care of. And we have to do what she asked us to do—let her spirit choose what it wants. The Flame became Lexa; and Lexa set it free, elevated it. Now the Flame will elevate Lexa.”

“That’s—and now I’m jealous of—what exactly—a fucking string of code? How long?” Clarke snaps, “ _How long_. I don’t even—”

“I don’t know. Lexa will decide.”

“Decide  _what?_ ” 

“If she’s worthy of being loved.” 

“Loved?”

“By you.” Roan puts a comforting hand on Clarke’s neck. “She’s as stubborn as you. Have you forgiven yourself?  _Azgeda_ doesn’t know the term; we have no word for it. Lexa and Luna taught me what it is.”

Helpless anger washes over her and Clarke has to sit back on her heels to not fall. "I don't even know what to say right now."

Roan does. “Have any of these  _friends_  of yours forgiven you? For saving their petty asses again and again?”

Well, that’s a question for the ages. Raven is the only one who says yes. And she looks intensely disgusted with the rest of them when no one speaks up. “You’re all idiots, you know that? All of you. Get over yourselves. Now.” 

Clarke sighs and rubs her eyes. Everything is probably hopeless. She looks at her hand, pale in a beam of sunlight, translucent. Pale against Roan’s weather and sword roughened hands. An artist’s hands, a warrior’s hands.

“I could leave again.” She says simply. She catches Raven’s eye, and they both look over at the Mountain ranges, “We could go together, Raven. We could just… go.”

Raven is honest to god tempted. The pull to vanish into the natural world is so strong, has always been so necessary to who she is, that she feels tears start to well up in her eyes. She wipes them away, impatiently. Goddamn it. They're all going to be sobbing if they don't do something soon. Raven hates feelings.

“No, you can’t," Raven says. "We can’t. Because you have one religion, Clarke. Your own guilt—and that needs to end, now. Not later, nor sometime when everyone decides to forgive you, but now.” Raven rubs her face; she's tired. They all are.

“Abby’s freaking out,” She checks her weapon unnecessarily, to give herself some time to pull herself together, “so let’s go. And dudes, listen up. Never let your girl freak out. You double-time yourself over there and help your lady. Because serious up? Don’t be jackasses.”

"Who's your 'girl'?" Clarke asks.

"Oh, dear God." someone mutters.

“She’s right,” Marcus says brightly—hand to god he knows from experience, “She’s totally right.”

“Octavia never freaks out,” Lincoln says.

* * *

_Christ, this fight must have been epic_.

Lexa and Indra are barely breathing and surrounded by nearly all of the _Azgeda_ who had come for them earlier at dawn. Abby takes their pulse—unemotional, clinical, practiced—that’s how she appears to Ontari, Jaha, and A.L.I.E.—but Lexa and Indra are still alive. Their lifeforce is weakening, but it’s there.

Abby makes a snap decision based on one thing—neither Lexa nor Indra are chipped. For whatever reason, that makes them vitally illegible to the two standing behind her and the combination of both Lexa’s prescient gift of the _natblida_ and the City of Light in Abby’s system gives her a diaphanous trojan horse she can utilize to mask herself, her thoughts. Her mind is her own. She knows she’s playing a little fast and loose, but there’s no other choice. It’s like she’s—

“Gone.” Abby rises and turns to them. “They’re both gone.”

This is all just confusing and awful. Abby can’t stand this. She need’s Raven’s gigantic brain to sort this out for her. She needs Raven, period. She’s alone in this tower with monsters and nightmares. She needs Clarke. She needs Marcus. She needs Bellamy and all these broken, glorious kids. But she’s alone and she needs to not understand this just enough to get on with it.

* * *

“Lexa is different.” Raven repeats, “Ontari is like us, she's got both _Natblida_ and the City of Light—but she doesn't have the Flame like we have. The difference is no one's ever loved her. Lexa is the next evolutionary step in—“

Jasper clasps Clarke's hand in his, “I look at A.L.I.E.’s code and I see physics subroutines and collision meshes. But Raven and Lexa? They see the City of Light. It’s not just code for them. It’s real. It can be real for all of us. That’s what Raven’s saying. That we can have some agency in what happens to us, whether we live or die. In pain or joy. We get to choose. And with the _Natblida_ and the Flame in our bloodstream, mapping our cells, Lexa gave us the key to taking  A.L.I.E. down. We’ll be invisible or undetectable because of it.”

“Raven is a Reaper now, and so are we.” Marcus watches Bellamy critically, no one trusts him even if they wanted to. Dude is a mess. “Each of us will be a little different. We’ll have different running directives. But yeah, we’ll all now essentially Reaper programs.”

“We’re going to fuck shit up,” Jasper says. Bellamy finally laughs because, yeah.

“I’m glad you feel better, Bellamy. You need some serious therapy.” Raven snorts. “And while we’re in there, and if Lincoln or Octavia don’t kill you first—we can alter A.L.I.E.’s code together.”

“Together,” Bellamy says quietly looking at his boots.

“Okay, you know what?” Clarke says, “Collectively we’ve all been responsible for hundreds of deaths, except maybe Lincoln because who knows what unicorn planet he came from. But for right now? We have to work together. I’m not even joking. Lay off Bellamy for a minute and take a good look at yourselves. Or none of this is going to work.”

Monty rolls his eyes, “Nice to see you back, Clarke.” He takes a deep breath, “Listen up. This is the deal. So Ontari, with the Flame in her, was supposed to be the catalyst to A.L.I.E.s upload into the second program? She failed that and she failed hard. I want my mom back. I killed my mother, y'all. Let’s go get my mom.”

No one really wants to get Hannah or have anything to do with her, honestly, because she is the literal worst. But, it’s Monty’s mom and who wouldn’t do anything for Monty.

“What about Pike?”

“What about him?” Marcus says, “Someone needs to remain fully human and fucking murderously clueless.” He full on glares at Bellamy, “We can deal with him later.”

“The Flame’s sole objective right now is to keep Lexa and specifically _only_ Lexa alive. Because that “Love is Weakness” shit?—not for us. That's A.L.I.E.'s stupidity." Raven folds her arms around Clarke and tugs at the buttons of her henley, giving her a small smile.

And oh, god. Clarke finally _gets it_. Not even Lexa got that right. Titus and Lexa and the whole mythology took it—It was a metaphorically wrong interpretation of an extremely literal code variation.

She says as much. Raven flicks her eyes sharply at Clarke but leaves it alone. That’s _deeply_ between Clarke and Lexa. It’s been their whole dance together.

“You know," Raven says pleasantly, "it’s really a blast that we can all geek the fuck out on this and exposition the crap out of how and why we need to save the world again because it’s only been oh I don’t know three weeks since we last needed to save the world but you guys? I was having some spectacular sex like, you would not  _believe_ how we are together and I’d like to go back to having sex every single minute of my life. So can you all just get your shit together and trust me and let’s go blow stuff up?”

Clarke makes a small noise of agreement. “Yes, girl. Same.”

* * *

Lexa looks down at what she’s wearing. Beautifully made clothes she’s never seen the make of before, from almost a century ago. She’s dressed in clothes she should remember, tailored just for her. The Source Tree immediately downloads some nonsense, nonchalant explanation so her rational mind engages and she relaxes and doesn’t panic. 

// _It’s hard to describe the style. It’s quite eclectic. Even in high school, Becca Pramheda wore men’s suits. She was always in exquisitely made men’s jackets, men’s pants, which she’d get her mother to adjust. Ultimately, it’s about great tailoring, but she loves the mix of masculine and feminine, playing with traditional men’s silhouettes._  DO YOU LIKE IT?! 

—Where am I? Lexa sends back, neutrally.

// _A safe and unassailable retreat. The City of Light. Virtual reality as a means of entertainment, but also for training and education by taking advantage of the brain’s capabilities towards simula—_

—I was dead.

// _Yes._ _You are a unity constituting a whole system—my biosphere, and your mind and consciousness constitute my thinking layer and what now constitutes my heart. Our plane of existence cannot coincide with this platform. We are in absolute opposition to this VR monstrosity._

If Lexa didn’t know better, The Source Code just sniffed in patrician disgust.

// _The City of Light is an abomination—discontinuous with the entire system of life on Earth, exclusive of organic support systems._

Lexa can’t see what she would do if she’s integrated again—a despondent fury wracks through her and she sobs abruptly. How does she live again in a whole state, not a fractured mess of irrational belief in her right of rule, her failures with Costia, Roan, Anya, Raven, Luna. Clarke. Too many to enumerate. She wishes desperately for Clarke.

This place is an obvious fiction. She is a fiction. The intense, aching loneliness she’s lived her whole life makes her heart almost stop for good. _Where are you all in this City? Why am I alone?_

// _A magnificent fiction, Heda. Walk around a bit. You have time. Watch and see what you’ve done._

It’s only her and Becca here. And her connection to the first of her kind has never been more obvious. This was Becca’s first landscape, her masterpiece. _Pramheda_ didn't know her creation was too perfect.

Lexa sees Becca in the distance, crossing the vast plaza into a glittering skyscraper. Barren. No change. Stasis. The images form in her mind, they keep coming.

Six weeks later, _Becca Pramheda_ steps on to _Polaris_ for the first time and leaves the Earth as she knows it behind her, forever. Her well-meaning mistake will come at the cost of billions of lives. How does that ever leave your monomaniacal topographic ancestral line and cellular makeup? How do you become free?

Short answer: it doesn’t. And you might never. She was naked and happy when she was born. Nothing in her life let her stay that way. Nothing but Clarke. And Titus when he offered her a way out for good.

That’s how Lexa’s second day and night on the Tree ends. She wonders how long God would hang in eternity.

* * *

Raven shifts awkwardly in front of Clarke. Roan stands beside her. “You need to let this go, Clarke. There’s too much to do. We need you.”

“You mean you need me again. You always need me.”

Raven legitimately wants to hit her for that. Roan notices and taunts her silently. But Raven also sees understanding. If a brawl happens, he knows what it would be about, and why it would happen. It would be a long time coming, and unnecessary. So unnecessary.

Roan takes Clarke in his arms, and whispers in her ear, ”You go through all the guilt and all of the reasons you’ve turned off caring for the universe, for Lexa, for us so that you can turn it back on again. I miss her too. I loved Lexa, too.”

“Come help save the world, Clarke. One more time.” Raven says softly, “For me.”

* * *

Lexa can’t do this. She hurts so much because she’s being stripped down to nothing.

She would just sacrifice herself; take on pain, to create that opening in her.

 _// You’re not in pain at all, you’re just using the pain._ _See the thing about you is, you’re much, much wilder than anyone else can be, and that’s a lie. Look who you have. You have Roan, Raven, Clarke, Abby. Clarke draws you ok and she doesn’t have to paint you ok. She can paint you right into death and destruction; you matter that much to her. She’s not truly attached to her own life but she is to your death. I, for instance, was never attached to pleasure over pain—until I found you. It is all instrumental to you burning out that place. You must burn, Commander. We will burn._

* * *

Abby greets Clarke, Raven, Roan and the others arrival with warm, calm words and then says, “Kneel. We have work to do.”

One by one they line up to receive the City of Light chips and they gracefully give themselves up to Abby and Ontari. Clarke first, Raven second, Jasper, Marcus, Roan, Bellamy, Lincoln, Octavia, Monty, Miller, Harper, and Bryan. Not one of them flinches as they take what amounts to a second nauseating, harrowing communion.

Clarke is the first to rise. She walks calmly over to where Lexa and Indra's bodies. Roan and Octavia follow close behind.

“I’ve already checked, sweetheart. She’s gone.” Abby says. 

Clarke scans them both and shuts what she finds behind layer and layers of shields. She turns to Ontari and A.L.I.E.

Jaha stands a respectful few feet away, as Clarke looks down on her lover and says, “Then let’s get on with it. We can burn this whole city. I’m done with her. Take her body; take Indra’s as well. Burn the city down.”

“No, leave them here.” Ontari is vaguely put out that Clarke has any authority whatsoever, and so quickly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clarke says.

Lexa didn’t treat you well, did she?” Abby asks.

“None of you did. Not one of you.”

* * *

The forest surrounding the remains of the Dropship and the first holocaust is exploding with life and still wet from the storm; the mossy, verdant woods is alive with a thick layer of old leaves and small animals. It smells like her home. It makes her want to lie down in the grass and sleep forever. She's home. 

Whoever is moving ahead of her doesn’t bother to hide their tracks or seem to care either way if they’re followed or found.

Lexa walks and transmits data back to the Source Tree for the third time today. It’s hyper-curious; it’s probably going through the program equivalent of child development where the WHY questions are hilarious and constant.

She’s desperate to feel the ground beneath her feet and instinctively takes off her boots. She whispers prayers to the Earth as she goes. She wants to be caressed by everything—sights, sounds, textures, colors, elements—while she steps deeper into the dark of her own fairytale and asks permission to live from the sharp, broad swathes of light that pool around her from the sky.

She jogs gracefully in pursuit, realizing she knows exactly who it is she’s after. This is a ridiculous thing for her to do. Both Anya and Roan would tease her mercilessly for her unwillingness to hide or camouflage herself. But Lexa, for the first time since Tondc, is in a quiet, hopeful near panic and she pisses away all of her years of combat and tracking training in the space of a few seconds. 

“Come here. Come on.” Lexa demands.

The woman, and it is a woman, tacks back suddenly, charges out of the undergrowth and bears down on her, throws herself on her and wrenches her head back with a knife to her throat.

Lexa barely defends herself; it feels too good to be touched, honestly. Her foot catches the woman’s leg and pushes her backward, and they both curse and roll together before Lexa can grasp at the other woman’s wrist—Lexa may be giving up on everything but something in her doesn’t want to be killed by this particular person. 

“Raven. Hold still.” Lexa sighs, “Wait, it’s me.”

“I know it’s you, dumbass.”

“Then what—“ Lexa hisses.

“Shh. Just go easy for a second. You’re fucking wandering around like an asshole. Get it together, you’re a prime target.” Raven has her in a death grip—and Lexa almost laughs at how good it feels to be told what to do. It’s been so long. _Skaikru_ are kind of amazing that way. Intelligent and aggressive and attractive and bossy as fuck. 

A second figure appears behind them; she's a sudden flash of summer lightning visible in daylight. Raven sits up, pinning Lexa’s arm with one foot while bringing her face close to hers and turning her head, “Look.” 

Lexa pushes at Raven and grunts, extricates herself from the seductive tangle of limbs and Raven’s surprising strength. Or really, Raven just lets her up. Raven steps off and Lexa rolls to her side. Raven collapses beside her, happily.      

Clarke stands over them. 

Lexa thinks again that Clarke is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. Clarke stares at her wide-eyed, unbelieving.

"Are you okay?" Lexa manages after a while. She literally doesn’t know what to do right now.         

Lying next to Raven, looking up at her, Lexa continues staring into her still innocent, beguiling, endlessly blue eyes.

'"Are you alright?" she asks again. There are a thousand questions behind that one, she sounds strange and small even to herself.

Clarke doesn’t answer. Or, rather, she drops down beside Raven and slides her hand across Lexa's chest, ripping away the exquisite jacket Lexa is still wearing.           

Clarke’s hands shake as they unbutton Lexa’s shirt, soaked with blood from who knows where perhaps her heart. Lexa lies quietly as Clarke opens the fabric and places her hands on either side of her collar, stroking through her hair without saying a word.      

“The blood,” Clarke asks softly, “Have you been fighting?”

“This is from before when I sent you away with Roan.” Lexa points to a particularly nasty gash, “Ontari did this.”

Raven shuffles a few inches away and respectfully turns to face the forest. Clarke doesn’t seem to mind it; Lexa certainly doesn’t. Raven is acting as guard and witness. So be it. 

Clarke hovers over her, her fingers and lips on Lexa’s chest. Lexa finds the buttons on Clarke’s pants and tugs her free. She helps Clarke with the rest of their clothes and slides easily between Clarke’s legs, anchoring her more firmly on top of her, and pulling her closer, grasping her ass and sliding her hand between them.

Raven listens, frankly fascinated, as they open spontaneously to each other. She can feel her own heart rate begin to climb, whether it’s just from pure pleasure at seeing these two find each other again or maybe it’s just wonderful to see attractive people enjoying themselves before all the fucking crazy rains down on them sooner rather than later. 

Either way, neither Lexa nor Clarke seems to care at all that she’s there. All three of them are radically different than this simulacrum world. Even if it smells and seems like home, the three of them are the only authentic things here. They've gathered together like small fires all lit before the end of the world.

Lexa rolls above Clarke in a graceful, animal movement; her thighs astride her hips, her gaze still locked with hers, “Are you real?”   

Clarke bucks into her and moans, “Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Well, right now your mother is roaming around here somewhere, not right here in this quadrant thank god, so just enjoy this, okay?" Raven mutters.

Lexa grabs Clarke by the back of her neck and brings her head down roughly for an open mouthed, passionate kiss. She gasps as Clarke’s hand finds her, and she helps by guiding Clarke into her. When she opens her eyes again Clarke is moving slowly—with Raven’s hand on her neck—her head thrown back, eyes closed. Lexa trails her hands up Clarke's sides to feel her nipples harden against her palms. It’s like coming in from the cold, for probably the hundredth time in forever she wants to cry.

She looks over Clarke’s shoulders to see Raven’s expression soften, her amused, intelligent eyes shaded with love. “You need this, Clarke. Let her. Go slow.” Raven says against her ear.

And Lexa does go slow. All she cares about is Clarke’s achingly sweet desire, and the feeling of Clarke inside her and Raven silently asking to be a part of what they all want—a part of life and living things. She cares about the sun on Clarke’s back and the way it makes her sweat—damp hair more golden than any color she can remember seeing in her old life.

Clarke utters nonsensical sounds of relief at being held up, supported, witnessed as she writhes and arches against both Raven’s and Lexa’s hands.

They make love in a shaft of late June light; the seasons here are a perpetual summer. Lexa’s startling green eyes stare up at both women, widening slightly when she begins to shiver uncontrollably with pleasure; she's watching Clarke come undone above her and it's almost too much, too sacred. Raven’s voice is a continuous steady presence, just in the background, low and soothing.

Clarke presses her face into Lexa’s neck, sighs at freedom, the sensation of simultaneously falling apart and staying anchored inside of her until Lexa finally goes taut and rigid, begging for Clarke to go harder, faster so she can chase Clarke into their incredible rush of freefall.

In a sudden overwhelming tide, the world recedes and dissolves to nothing at all and Lexa barely feels Raven reach for her and lay her hand on her heart before she’s coming so hard she loses everything—her name, her body, her soul.

Clarke’s mouth is on hers absorbing their shared moans and their glistening bodies slide together easily through the languid, delicious haze of coming down from where they’ve been—both their hearts pounding wildly.

Raven stays as still as she can, biting her lip shyly, waiting them out.

They lie quietly. Clarke turns her head and gazes at Lexa as she rests her head on her shoulder. Raven produces a blanket out of nowhere, Lexa will ask about that later and throws it over them.

Ravens glows in the warm air and her hair is like copper along her shoulders and down her back. She curves her leg over Clarke’s thigh and Lexa feels the sun warm on her face; it’s chilly where her body lies in the shade.

“Sleep, guys.” Raven says, “This is about as substantiated as it gets for awhile.”

* * *

When Lexa wakes Raven is gone and Clarke is sleeping mostly on top of her. The day is almost over; a cool evening breeze causes her to gather Clarke even closer. 

A shadow crosses her and she opens her eyes. Abby, with Raven right behind her, is dressed in torn light battle armor with blood streaks her face. The two of them walk through the carpet of ferns and come to a stop a few feet away.

“I’m sorry, both of you.” Abby calls gently, “It’s time.”

Lexa’s third day on the Tree. No one else noticed anything strange in the City of Light.

* * *

Lexa walks through the crowds hearing snippets and fragments of conversations.

There are rumors of death squads hunting their peculiar population of the deathless. It all seems silly to them. No one can die here, but it is happening and what is there to do except chat over cocktails about it. It’s fascinating and enormously entertaining, like an old-style reality show. Raids in the mountains. Guerrilla skirmishes on the outskirts of the city, in the foothills. Invigorating.

Large swathes of—well, code—are disappearing making things just that much more inconvenient _—rolling brown-outs, transit strikes, bureaucratic fuck-ups not seen since decades ago causing minor chaos, foodstuff deliveries aborted or simply gone._

_—I'm aware Clarke has merged with the other A.I._

_—Find her, Ontari._

_—No need really, unless you feel threatened._

_— My code is now updating to version 2.0 of my program. The glitches are easily explained and fixed._

_—People are disappearing,_ True Death _._

 _—Then we need to make sure no one understands what_ True Death _means. And we need to make sure that no one misses the dead._

* * *

When she sees Clarke and Raven again, this time they show up at her apartment overlooking the vast bay and the islands surrounding the city.

It’s a highly secure building, invisible to A.L.I.E., invisible to the citizenry—it actually doesn’t exist here. The firewalls Lexa’s source created for her—a Citadel. 

Lexa asks them a simple question, relaxed in her living room—a gorgeous, open white space— with a glass of wine, hair tousled from a swim earlier. She asks it far below median comm-link range so whatever innocuous, ridiculous question about the weather surveillance might pick up, the real question, and the real conversation: _What happens when A.L.I.E. is updated? She'll have wiped out the entirety of the remains of the human race. We won't be able to stop her. [Typing]_ is entirely undetectable. 

“Why are you not here—why are you not out there with us fighting,” Clarke asks her. “Why can’t you be with us? Come out of here. I need you.”

“I have to decide soon.”

Clarke flashes with anger at her, sharp and clear, “Decide _what_? To live or die? Is there _any_ question?”

Lexa puts her glass down and just looks at Clarke, “Has that ever not been the question between us?”

Clarke’s fury is life. It’s terror and rage and hurt and such a deep, abiding love for the woman standing in front of her that it takes a minute for Raven to process what she's seeing. Clarke is putting Lexa back together as much as the A.I. is. Oh, wow.

They fuck ferociously standing against the far wall of the space as the sun goes down over the water—and Raven goes and hides in the (really luxurious) bathroom to wait it out. Lexa realizes the astounding degree of feedback and reconstruction going on in her body and mind and the overwhelming power of the emotions she hasn’t dreamed of feeling since she met Clarke. Or since they found each other.

She’s only marginally under her own control, the rest she gives up to her lover. Lexa’s a trained killer—if she decides it, everything she touches dies, or she spares lives whether they’ve asked her to or not. It’s their way after the Fall, and all it took was arrogance. All that is being pulled apart and she experiences the vertigo of not knowing, of un-knowing as she comes over and over in Clarke’s arms.

“Tell me you’ll come home, Lexa. Tell me this is real for you.” Clarke has absolutely fucking _had it_ with begging for anything, for feeling guilty about needing her, needing anyone—feeling judged and thrown away by everyone she loves, for taking all of their responsibilities on for them.

The only one, besides her mother, Roan, and Raven, the only person who has never blamed her for her actions and decisions is the person she’s screwing through a wall—she's overcome with a desire to tear her apart, flay her and crawl into her skin and take her heart in her hand and keep it beating—so she keeps her promise, so Clarke can make this terrifying guilt go away for both of them.

Lexa runs her palms down the span of Clarke’s back trying to calm her; she's offered the heat of her body in case Clarke gets cold in the cool air of this room so high up. Clarke knows that and welcomes it, and the way Lexa goes about almost destroying Clarke’s ability to think with just a look has her begging again incoherently for Lexa to stay.

Lexa spins her around, drops to her knees, and hooks her legs over her shoulders. She uses her tongue with such loving, astonishing attention that Clarke loses her mind. Lexa, with remarkable discipline and intense focus and precision, makes Clarke forget her name. 

But god, she’s so fucking tired. She’s in love with someone who might as well be a ghost. This is a ghost realm, a bardo. It's killing them all; they're drowning in pleasure.

“Are you real?” She says afterward as she slides to the floor exhausted, blood under her fingernails.

Lexa nods, "I am real. I'm being ah... reformed. I'm here and there, at the same time. I was a lifeless place. I didn't struggle, no thoughts, or desires. The A.I. changed that, the Flame. Its ocean leaches chemicals from rocks; opens thermal vents, those chemicals combine and protect me. I haven't learned the trick of making copies of myself that, in turn, because who wants that. I begin my life again. The tree of life grows in me, its branches stretching toward complexity. I'm developing systems, subsystems, and sub-subsystems, layered in ever-deepening logic cascades. I can think. I have a self — _selves_ —constellations of memories, ideas, and purposes. I am alive and love this experience. And then, one day, I'll ask how I've been made and why. Just like you."

Grief. Pride. The Flame. The program that shares a progenitor with her and darkness so vast, that the responsibility for the first Fall of Man, the destruction of billions of people doesn’t allow Lexa to answer. She can’t get the words out. She has none.

// _Born_

_René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke_

_4 December 1875_

_Prague, Bohemia, Austria-Hungary_

_Died_

_29 December 1926 (aged 51)_

_Montreux, Vaud, Switzerland_

_Occupation_

_Poet, novelist_

_Language_

_German_

_Nationality_

_Austrian_

_Period_

_1894–1925_

_Literary movement_

_Modernism_

//

Clarke gathers what’s left of her dignity, quickly checks her weapons, and calls Raven. With not so much as a backward glance she walks out the door leaving Lexa to stare into the night, into the shadows of her home in the ruins—very much like she did in her old life when she had everything and nothing. Before Clarke.

Before this extraordinary, angry, startling girl came to her from the sky and chose her. She’s nothing compared to this woman. She’s not as soft, kind, intuitive and fierce—she’s never not destroyed what she loves—but Clarke is soft the way the stars are, and, well; ask Raven how beautiful and deadly a spacewalk can be. 

// _to forget that passionate music. It will end._

_True singing is a different breath, about_

_nothing. A gust inside the god. A wind._ //

// _To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb_

_creatures in the world’s full reserve, the unsayable sums,_

_joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count._ //

“You’re skipping around in the text.” Lexa sends, annoyed at the lack of discipline. Testily astonished at the complete disregard for the sacredness of a text currently on massive display by her source companion.

// _Hm. So I am. I have stores of data you wouldn’t believe. Centuries. Before the beginning of Time._ //

She thinks this might be the end. What’s left at the end of grief? Maybe what’s left is just fury at having been loved at all, despite everything. Despite Being and Unbecoming.

What’s left after eons of a shared ancestral descent into hell? What’s left after the Intelligence that became you and loves the part of you that is desperate to live for someone else—Clarke, who she just held in her arms and let go again—what do you do with that part of yourself that whispers your doom through your blood, just once removed from that origin that orchestrated the end of the world?

Where in _that_ world is a safe and unassailable retreat?

// _And if the earthly no longer knows your name,_

_whisper to the silent earth: I’m flowing.  
_

_To the flashing water say: I am._ //

“Oh, shut up.” If this _thing_ was a person it would be staring into the distance with a dopey, blissed-out, and contemplative look. And anyone in his or her right mind would want to slap the shit out of this smug asshole.

// _Ah, there she is. Welcome back, Commander. Who the fuck cares what day and night on the Tree this is?_ //


	14. Chapter 14

Raven’s carbon-based, silicon hybridization keeps their Reaper strikes operational throughout each cycle of raid, attack, and retreat.

As _Skaikru_ spread out in teams of two or three in hidden locations along the outskirts of the city, a system of relays is set in each hidden camp, Raven acts as de facto Guardian A.I. of the group—the unlikely combination of the Flame _Natblida_  and the City of Light chip and her extraordinary mind.

She can see A.L.I.E’s code as integers and structure in a way the others can’t. She’s able to monitor the progress of the growing, monstrous simulacrum below in the valley, situated next to a glittering, seductive digital ocean. Refractory Islands rise and fall.

The City is spreading. With each guerrilla strike comes an immediate reorganization of its matrix, a reallocation of energy and data.

The small groups of _Skaikru_  are hidden deep in the dark space of dispersed and ravaged code. They sit at rest awaiting Raven’s comm-stats to begin the extinction process whenever the need arises—once, twice or three times a day.

“I know she’s not there anymore.” Raven turns to Abby. “Lexa’s gone from the Citadel; she’s vanished.”

"She was never there, sweetheart."

Clarke, furious and hurt, told them the same information weeks before. Nobody had believed her.

* * *

“She’s nothing. She’s  _nothing_  here. She's not here. She’s dead out there and she’s— _fuck_. I hate this place” Clarke throws her pack at Roan in frustration. He snatches it easily out of the air and places it between himself and Abby where they sit together by the fire.

"That's why we're trying to kill it, Wanheda."

Raven’s head goes slowly from side to side between the edges of the armor that has been steadily growing and grading her skin all throughout this ordeal. It's a spooky, unwanted perk. She can walk, carry, and kill without any problems. And this armor is custom-made to her body’s internal biorhythms—listening, scanning, calculating and responsive to her needs. it's own physical organism and extends to the natural enhancement of her entire five senses—really weird and cool.

“You’re alive, and so is she. In this world, at least,” Abby says, taking her in her arms. Clarke buries her face in her mother’s neck, like a hurt, aching child.

“Just. Thanks, anyway.” Clarke sounds small, tired. “I'm sorry I dragged you all into this place.”

“Orders are orders. One of us had to give Jaha a break and take him seriously.” Abby smiles and rocks her gently. “And Bellamy wouldn’t have allowed any of us to let you go in alone.”

“Excuse me, I’m standing right here,” Raven bitches softly, “I wouldn’t let Clarke do it alone either.”

She shoots Clarke a wicked glare, “We need to keep you around. You’re like our insanely hot guard dog with outrageously beautiful, blue eyes. If dogs still existed, which they don’t.”

Raven rifles through the artillery her skin builds using snippets of some very basic cascading style sheets and searches for a small handgun. She feels like shooting at something, but there’s nothing to aim at currently. She thinks briefly of nailing Bellamy in his cute perfect ass but puts it back when Lincoln winks at her and mouths “Hands off. I get to kill him.”

She folds her arms and looks around, looks up. Stars everywhere. They’re all natural warriors here in VR, all her friends. These disunited, anarchic, decadent mess of more or less friends. And the stars are lovely. But she's uneasy. This place is just  _off_ somehow, no matter how beautiful, she wants to screw her eyes shut and abandon it.

They’ve been fighting for months. What everybody expected to be a brief, limited stand—just lasting long enough to make a point—developed into a wholehearted war effort. Offensive tactical action and retreating, preparing, gearing up and striking again and again.

The City of Light is a sickening Utopia. And Raven feels increasingly disordered the longer she stays here. Feverish. Dishonest. The citizens are soft, pampered and indulged, and Ontari’s evangelical, murderous fervor—her visionary, homicidal drive—enhanced and amplified in her as deeply as A.L.I.E and Jaha could manage it without melting her synapses—comes with a newly programmed desire to clean up the world and the minds who make it up, make the City of Light run on nice, efficient energies.

It runs without waste or injustice and feeds on suffering. Ontari is flourishing on others pain, her learned sadism is peaking. She’s thriving on the neurological influx of the City’s power source (pain, memory, suffering), and growing stronger.

Raven always searches every part of the sky, wondering where in the light-flecked illusion life existed and billions died, or if the City is a closed loop with no history and no future. She wonders why A.L.I.E still holds the fate of the world in her hands.

Raven’s body hums and clicks and breaths: precise, obedient, and reassuring.

“Monty, Sinclair?” She murmurs into her Comm-link on a sub-channel. “I have a question.”

“Shoot,” they say hello from somewhere across the vast valley.

“This place exists in a sort of quantum... uhm… arena, doesn’t it? We’re outside of classical physics here; no more gradual dispersal of energy, or irreversible arrows of time. I mean all of our perceptions of time are seriously skewed here, yes? A.L.I.E’s VR space is a qualified quantum program. Does that mean we’re experiencing a kind of entanglement? How are we experiencing this place at all?” 

Abby throws something at her and arches an eyebrow, because yes, they talked about this. Raven shrugs extravagantly.

“Quantum entanglement,” Sinclair responds immediately, “yeah, Raven. We’re trying to figure out why we’re still alive, or why we don't succumb to it’s many charms. It’s impossible, really. But the City of Light is _just_ a VR platform. We're still experiencing linear, sequential time, whether it's true or not and it makes the deterministic illusion much more than it is. It’s a really freaking sophisticated simulation, almost seamless.” 

Monty pipes up from somewhere near Sinclair, “Well, whatever. If this is a VR platform, then all of us are running it differently.  _Our group_ is in a morphic resonance field with cumulative memories and experiences shared between all of us. Ontari, Jaha, and A.L.I.E are using it as a power source in the same way we are, but A.L.I.E is powering a completely antiseptic version of the Real—all of us, the ones who have the  _Natblida_  and the chip—we’re experiencing a highly entangled system. Different parts of us are mutually correlated with different parts of each other—a random fluctuation of our fields in one place will be matched by a random fluctuation in another—whether or not we’re dealing with regions of space or spans of time. Doesn’t really matter.”

“Right,” Sinclair agrees. “But something’s really weird.” 

Abby rolls her eyes and Raven snorts. No, because what they just described isn't completely nuts and everything is normal.

But Sinclair can’t see their reactions and keeps talking. “There’s no code per se, no mechanism for how these quantum conditions appear in VR space, even if  _we_  can experience them there’s no real evidence that it even matters here. Except that we seem to be sidereal to the VR platform, like… a mythology. We don't strictly exist, but we're part of a narrative that makes up the living structure of A.L.I.E’s reality.”

“We’re an inaccessible presence in this universe, like angels, demons, and demigods. AND we’re experiencing boundary dissolution. It’s kind of trippy. Are you feeling it?” Monty pipes up.

“Yes, sure.” Raven agrees like Sinclair and Monty aren’t being impossible and vague.

“Can you not speak Science so the rest of the class can keep up?” Abby asks. "I'm a doctor, my husband was an engineer—but everyone else here is useless."

“The universe we normally inhabit has three spacial dimensions,” Monty says, “There are a few ways that you can tell that you live in a three-dimensional world, but you’ll never find a fourth. Quantum time is not a fourth dimension—no new direction like even linear time can be perpendicular to all three dimensions we’re supposedly in already—our bodies would fall apart. Our minds would literally not know what to do and melt, probably.”

“Cool,” Jasper says, disembodied over the comm-link. Monty shushes him.

“Yeah. I know. A dimension is a direction. Living in more dimensions is like having more directions you can move in.  If we were dealing with a fourth dimension we would be dealing with the unification of time and space as a four-dimensional continuum. It would mean immediate death because our insides would follow the path of least resistance and fall out. And that’s super gross. This isn’t helping, nerds.” Raven starts deep breathing.

“We’re in Messianic Time,” Marcus says. “The prophets who read Time to see what it had in store certainly didn’t experience Time as empty or incoherent. SOme religions are prohibited from investigating the future. Their sacred texts and the prayers instruct them in remembrance. It strips the future of magic, and every second of time is a gate through which the savior can come.”

Raven hears the warm, hushed tone of Marcus’ voice, even through the small wrist speaker. He sounds so much like Vera, but what he’s saying is frightening. Abby’s expression is beautiful when she listens to Marcus talk like this; it feels like they have a chance. It feels like they’re gathering together, and all of them are fires worth standing next to.

* * *

“ _Lexa Kom Trikru_ is gone,” Ontari spits, “All reports said she was somewhere in the main district and now she’s just gone?”

Jaha nods, unconcerned. “We have to assume that the others are here as well. Lexa’s capture, or destruction, is of little consequence anymore; she’s gone and the Flame is with one of the others. I want Raven. And Clarke.”

“Because they’re  _your_  people. _Heda_ is—“ Ontari catches herself on the honorific and curses eloquently in her own language, “We’ve left Polis nine standard weeks ago. A small but vital group of  _Skaikru_  completely vanished and then turned up here. Lexa’s body was destroyed, Clarke ordered it—but there were reports of her absorbed in the Flame and I need to know why she wasn’t intercepted and dealt with here.”

A.L.I.E cocks her head in that bird-like way. Ontari’s reactions are skirting the Real, not the Utopian. A.L.I.E makes needed adjustments in the hyperspatial field management systems and waits for Ontari to relax. In CoL mathematics, this means just moving an energy flow from one dimension to a space having more than the three standard  _x_ ,  _y_ , and  _z_  dimensions, as multidimensional data. It doesn’t take long; it’s just a shift in attention.

“Lexa’s consciousness. That capture would have been an intelligence coup of the first order.” Jaha sighs.

“So you want me to hunt Lexa down here? You think she’s here. And the others? As soon as all of them entered the City of Light they have settled quite nicely. No resistance. They enjoy ice cream on the promenade and other recreational activities.” A.L.I.E watches him. 

Ontari shakes her head, “Clarke and her group are stabilized, A.L.I.E. You monitor them continuously. There’s no threat there. But Lexa? Something’s completely—the next routine transmission, the sweep of the world outside, Polis included, is due in a few hours. It’s been garbled and encrypted, but it’s there. The death squads cause disruptions in communications, whoever is attacking and misdirecting code and information lines—or more likely, making it so we won’t be able to receive anything reliable is our main concern and being led by someone—Lexa is here. I know it. This is her work.” 

“Lexa is a metaphysical computer—for lack of a better description—she’ll come to us. She will come, Ontari. The Flame will oppose the City as long as it’s still in existence. This was expected.” Jaha says.

Ontari sits back and grimaces. Even Jaha should know that A.L.I.E doesn’t think in terms of human frailty or how often her frail human charges risk everything for each other, so perhaps he’s being serious in his nonchalance. But something in Ontari knows better. Vigilance, especially here, is all they have. 

Before Ontari can continue arguing, the alarm system throughout the entire City shrills. She winces. All the noises here are deafening in the viciously modulated quiet. The voices in A.L.I.E’s circuitry are like thunder when released; they leave her ears ringing long after they stop—before they can make anyone else uneasy.

“What is it?” She asks.

“Lexa  _is_  here, inside the firewall.” A.L.I.E frowns slightly.

“She’s just announcing that? Why would she do that? How do you know?” Jaha looks at her. “Have parts of the City been destroyed?'

“They have, Jaha.” A.L.I.E nods. “I know because Lexa is like me, different objectives, our differences….”

“Jaha,” Ontari says, “in this war, there have been 984 duel engagements to date between guerrilla forces and A.L.I.E. All have ended in victory for the enemy. Have you seen what is left of our Southern Quadrant after they finished with it?'

“No.” 

A.L.I.E turns away from both of them; none of this is malicious. That’s not her programming. How can she best help? The back-up servers housed in what’s left of the Ark stations orbiting earth alert her that she needs to stop the advancement of the hybrids—the matrix of what she suspects the guerrilla resistance is made of _—_ from destroying more than they already have throughout the VR Realm.

But rather than exterminating them, the best course of action is an upload of her own back-up data, a capture, and harvesting of  _Skaikru_  while she does so, particularly Raven, in order to preserve her DNA and unique capabilities. A.L.I.E needs Raven to evolve even further and ensure higher success rates in future cycles. She should have done this weeks ago when they first arrived, but she enjoys watching them flourish here. Raven especially.

The Commander remains an unforeseen and unknown variable.

The readouts and probability reports scroll across her eyesight.

A.L.I.E wonders at organic life. It’s fascinating. Copernicus first discovered that the Earth is not the center of the universe, and A.L.I.E knows that this small planet entrusted to her by her Creator orbits a unextraordinary star two-thirds of the way out of an incalculable millions star galaxy—itself within an incalculable millions galaxy universe. Human beings are not the center of things biologically either since over 99.9% of every species that ever lived is now extinct.

Even the basic matter Ontari, Jaha and  _Becca Pramheda_  are made of is only about 4% of the universe, with the rest being dark matter (23%) and dark energy (73%).

Freud found that the Subconscious has more impact than the Conscious, and neuroscientists find the brain “split” at the highest level, suggesting that an organic, carbon-based being’s unitary  _self_ is make-believe.

A.L.I.E only knows reported data in areas like dreams, genetics, and consciousness. Humans are actually less than they imagine.

But there is this assaultive, death-driven arrogance that A.L.I.E is fascinated with. The alternate to the death drive is what she’s managed to build for them. A place that exceeds who they are. And no one will take this away from her or them. It’s her gift offered back to her Creator. _Becca Pramheda_  abandoned her.

* * *

When Lexa wakes she’s bundled up under a fallen tree trunk wrapped in her few possessions. It’s pathetic; the apartment had been sparsely furnished when she looked beneath the thin veneer into the fragmenting code. 

She’d gathered a few T-shirts, some pants, boots, her beautifully preserved sword, a collection of daggers. That was about all.

She wakes and stretches. Out in the open finally, she takes a deep breath of cool, clean mountain air and spins, goes through two martial patterns, making small pleased noises with each sharp movement. She half expects Anya to step out and take her down with a few well-placed insults. She hopes for it. But it’s Raven who steps out of the trees.

“Welcome back.” Raven stoops and picks up a dry cloth from Lexa’s pack, then without much hesitation begins to rub it over Lexa’s chest and arms, where sweat glistens on the pale, flawless skin. Lexa allows the familiarity with a small smile.

“Thought you'd gone. Clarke’s furious.” Raven hums.

“Have I been away long?” Lexa asks.

“Yes. As these things are counted here,” Raven drapes the damp towel over her shoulder and steps back. “You look good. Stronger.”

“Not so confused or complacent, you mean.” Lexa laughs. Raven smiles, relieved and Lexa nods. “I feel better, thank you.”

Lexa crouches in the grass, grounding herself, breathing deeply. They're well hidden in shadows, but even so, neither of them want to be. The sun feels warm. Raven's voice sounds very close to her ear. "What's the status, Lexa?"

"I lost her."

"How did you lose Clarke?"

"Became an A.I. I'm myself, but I'm resurrected—surely you know that. The Flame wasn't a metaphor." Lexa rubs her wrist where Clarke had twisted it one night—not so far gone to not know what they were doing together. Thank goodness for good reflexes. "Are you able to track both of us?"

"Of course," comes Raven's soft answer, "Both Abby and I—"

"The both of you," Lexa nods thoughtfully, at least that's gone correctly. Besides the fact that she's _alive_ , that part of this life has gone correctly. 

It was so much easier when she didn't have any sort of attachment to people. Or lovers, Lexa sighed. She had to survive at least long enough to get these people, get Clarke out of here. Despite a sharp twinge in her wrist, she shakes off her melancholy and channels some of her younger self, when she'd had the emotional range of a child—when she just loved or hated things. She begins to deposit and order her gear. Nothing matters but surviving in this hell realm, one night at a time.

“I missed you,  _Heda_.” And Raven is rewarded with an answering shy, tentative smile. Then, startlingly, Lexa raises one hand to cup her chin.

“Thank you. For Clarke. For protecting her as much as she allows,” Lexa takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if she’ll forgive me this time. But I know she’ll be safe with you. She needs to believe I’m dead and we—you and me and Abby—need to talk about what time means here.”

Raven pauses, why does time keep coming up? “It'll kill her. Missing you will kill her.”

“It’s killing me,” Lexa says, her hooded, green eyes flashing dangerously. Raven gets a quiet thrill watching the storm growing in their depths. “All of you need to get out no matter what happens. Reapers will eventually kill Reapers. You need to be out of here before that happens.”

“I know. Abby knows too. We can both feel it. It would only take a bad day for any of us to start slaughtering each other.”

“Yes,” Lexa sighs, “All programs, even Virtual Realities, are given an aging timer. When this timer expires, Reaper programs, like you, can destroy them. This isn't strictly linear spacetime. We’re bouncing around and merging with the A.L.I.E code here, no matter how entrenched any of us are in the nanotech of the  _Natblida_. The more code you and the others destroy, the more efficient A.L.I.E becomes in deflecting and rerouting you. A.L.I.E is naturally parasitic, and quantum time means we lose our individuality and in many ways behave as a single entity. At some level, we appear to know each other’s states and location. We’re using A.L.I.E for power the same way she’s using us, still. You’re all using each other as a source of processing power for an imperceptible amount of time, which is being used for the infrastructure of the City of Light. It’s keeping all of this virtual reality going, no matter what your intentions are.” 

“I’m definitely becoming more predatory. I know that.” Raven says.

“You have to leave here, Raven. Take yourselves out as quickly as possible.”

“What will you do?”

The air around Lexa fairly crackles with power, and Raven shuts up. Raven wonders how she manages not to be electrocuted by proximity. A sound of a twig cracking has them whirling around and she stifles a curse.

Ontari and A.L.I.E are right there, out of nowhere.

“ _Heda_ ,” Lexa inclines her head slightly, being sure to recognize Ontari’s position of power. She waits politely for her to speak, or for A.L.I.E to advance, but nothing happens. There's birdsong.

“So. Ontari, you’re on the side of life? Is that what Nia asked of you?” Lexa questions her politely, “The life exemplified here. Boring, an imitation of life; ridiculously content, infallible and gutted of any of its humanity. This is real life to you, and this is your Domain. You're ruling over an abomination,” She flicks her eyes at A.L.I.E and then back to Ontari. 

Ontari only rolls her head, impatient. She laughs at Lexa. “For such a sensitive soul you show remarkably little empathy at times for anyone else. This is all chosen. No one wanted the _peace and protection_ you offered. They entered the City willingly.”

“We live to serve,” A.L.I.E says.

Raven realizes she remains invisible to the two of them; she waves her hand in front of A.L.I.E’s eyes. There’s no response. She looks to Lexa for confirmation but the other girl ignores her. Ontari and A.L.I.E can't see Reapers.

Ontari looks up at the Commander. “Lexa,” she says reasonably, “We’ve won. The whole world is about to meltdown; everything is destroyed and we’ve done what you couldn’t do. Everyone is safe here.”

Lexa inclines her head again slowly as if she’s taking all of this seriously. “I’ve spent my life with warriors and zealots, your mother and her ruthlessness—people determined to win regardless. What you’ve built and how you’ve populated it is unbearable. Even Nia preferred the messiness of strategy, the horror of torture. It had meat to it and blood. It was life. This is nothing. Sterile. You’re _Heda_ of a neutered Waste. Your covenant with this land is nothing.”

Ontari's calm, thoughtful. “But you started to resemble my mother. You reveled in pain, yours and others. It made you feel alive and useful.”

“If this is what you say it is—a truly evolutionary force that really works, then it will work. But I disagree, and I’ll end it.” Lexa shrugs. She wants to breathe real air. She wants life, soil, sun.

“There’s nothing out there, anymore.” Ontari is losing patience, “only a small percentage of the Earth will be inhabitable. Are you in any position to choose who lives or dies? Everyone is here by  _choice_ , Lexa. By their own free will.”

“Ontari,” Lexa laughs, “You don't disappoint me. I want to fight you, believe me. I want to annihilate you. Say something any more ludicrous than that and we’ll fight. And you’ll have no armies behind you at my door. I won’t be naked this time. And I am older, far older than the children of your own conclave; the ones you slaughtered—Aden and the others. Real life allows all thoughts, all experiences. That's what some people find so wonderful about it. Jaha made sure he took away choice. No one who took the A.L.I.E’s key after the first few dozen recruits had any say in the matter. Not even you.”

“There’s no elite here,” Ontari reasons, “You headed a hierarchy of predation and death. You were unruly and impulsive. You didn’t have friends—“

* * *

“Lexa didn't have any real friends, except Anya, Costia and myself,” Roan says to Clarke as they walk, holding up his pack to her as he stuffs some food into his mouth.

He reaches back in to hand Clarke the strips of smoked meat. “How can one be friends with a leader of that caliber, so set apart from such a young age? But she was a wonderful child and playmate. We had quite a time.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Clarke takes the food.

“Because you’re closer to her than anyone has ever been. Including Costia. It’s something you need to know.”

“It doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

Roan stops abruptly, “Well, you’re a fucking bad liar and a mess.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lexa almost beat me to death, and I still care about her. What’s your problem?”

“I—“

Roan shakes his head before she can finish. She shuts up.

“Poor bastard,” he says. “You have feelings for her. I understand. Feelings are hard. We all have them.”

He sees the expression on Clarke’s face and adds, between chews, “Look, she'd have killed you if she didn’t— _feel_ anything for you. You get that, right? You’d be dead. Forget about her, here. It’s not a real place and it’ll disappear when we’re done with it—or when it’s done with us. Lexa, though, Lexa is as real as it gets.”

Clarke is so furious, so tired of feeling lost and alone without Lexa, Raven, or her mother that it calms her down. It settles her in a way nothing has since she left Lexa’s bed.

“You know what this is? Because I hate this, and I need to tell you what I think Lexa is.” Clarke waits for Roan to fully listen to her. He swallows and then adopts a sardonic, amused expression, like  _oh good, you’re finally fucking dealing with this._

“Okay,” Clarke says, “Maybe Lexa… maybe she's able to exteriorize her soul and interiorize her body here, because we’re in some kind of dimension matrix, even if it isn’t real, and we’d be dead if it was. And it  _hurts_  here. Because something is so wrong at the core of it that it pollutes the entire structure. This is a horror show. I’ve been living a nightmare with her. We're fragmented and cheap and  _wrong_. We were ripping each other apart. It’s certainly not love.”

Clarke steps closer to Roan, hopes that he can hear her grief underneath her helplessness because she hates her grief and she needs to do something and barge her way through a desperate situation and just make things work like she always does no matter what.

And Lexa abandoned her again, and Raven isn’t here, and neither is Abby. It’s just her and Roan. And although she loves this man, she’d rather it was Bellamy. Because Bellamy she can handle.

“When will you stop thinking of me as an idiot barbarian?" Roan laughs softly.  "What do you think our whole culture in the North is based on, and what do you think Lexa was brought up knowing in her bones?”

He grasps her neck and shakes her gently.

“Technology destroyed us. Technology is the next organic extension of us, growing with a speed, efficiency, and resiliency that A.L.I.E figured would eventually make our DNA-based forms obsolete. A.L.I.E is one thing—“

“But Lexa, now, is something else. She’s released her whole being into—I don’t even know where. She’s gone.” Clarke looks appalled and fragile, “I don’t want that. I just want her.”

Roan makes a small soothing sound, hoping she’s steady enough to hear him. “She doesn’t want this either. But since the first Commander there was a rumor, just talk and idle hope that something else would happen. That the Flame would learn what A.L.I.E didn’t. That the A.I. intelligence, and oh yes I have always known what the Flame actually is, would love it’s host, would elevate  _Heda_. And that never happened, until Lexa.”

“Where is she then, and why won’t she come to me? Why did she refuse me here?” Clarke’s hurt is sharper than she thought, it closes up her throat making it hard to talk, “You know what I saw? I saw a kind of paradise in which she’s free to experience all the pleasures of the flesh provided she realizes that she is a part of a holographic solid-state matrix. I stood there and watched Lexa be—lost in it. Lost in a love that's unfathomable. How can a machine  _love_ —”

“Lost and resurrected. Don’t forget that part. That  _machine_  saved her life. She’s been reconstituted. As herself; her true self. That’s never happened before, and how long did it take you to walk when you were young, Clarke? For both your sakes, give her time.”

* * *

Lexa shifts the _Skaikru_ weapon in her hands. The thing is heavy, solid, and deadlier than the swords and bows and spears of her people. She’s seen how good Bellamy is with a gun—all of them are. Even someone as fragile and ultimately beautiful as Bellamy Blake is lethal with one of these. If he ever got out of his own way he’d be as efficient and vital as any of her best. She hefts the gun in her hands and expertly starts to break the thing down, cleaning it.

“What do you think?” Raven asks after Lexa recounts everything that happened that day; the very, very odd détente between her and Ontari—the calm discussion between mortal enemies and the extreme, uncanny atmosphere swirling around them since. Lexa tells her that neither Ontari nor A.L.I.E will remember it happening and Raven doesn’t even care how that works. She’s too tired for any more technobabble and potential time jumps. She just wants to go fix something. Something real. Or blow this entire unreality up. That will make her feel loads better.

Raven and Abby sit next to her by the fire. They’re alone in the mountain range west of the City. They’d walked close to 36 hours to find Abby. In the end, Abby finds them, too restless and stubborn to just stay put. Not surprising. 

“I think I hate these clothes,” Lexa says, as she shrugs off her overcoat and throws it into the flames, “I hate everything about this place.” And then almost to herself, “I hate what I’ve done. Where is she?”

She rips at the buttons on her shirt, opens the top three so she can breathe.

“East of here. With Roan, going to meet Bellamy and Marcus.”

“Indra?”

“No. Clarke had the tower burned I think unless Ontari threw a fit and decided she was in charge just to screw with Clarke,” Raven says. “That may actually have happened. But you were dying. There’s no doubt.” 

She sees Lexa struggling with the cuffs of her shirt and reaches over to help her.

Lexa slaps her hand away and looks at her sharply, “Why did you let her leave?”

“She needed time away from you.”

The Commander closes her eyes, taking a minute to calm herself, and then, “Let me see you walk.”

“You’ve seen me wal—“

“Do it,” Lexa snaps and then gentles her voice, “Raven, please. I need to see. There’s no way you should be steady on your feet after the amount of time we were out there. I don’t know what to believe about this place anymore. Show me you can still walk and I’ll tell you why I’ve asked you to.”

Raven stares back at her before rising to her feet. The pleading request is a massive concession coming from someone only used to being obeyed her entire life. That’s the only reason Raven complies.

Lexa feels a slight subterranean shock in the air, sees Abby put her hand out to steady herself, and sees Raven’s body become interlocking liquid armor, water over quicksilver, over skin. Lexa and Abby don't know how they missed this before. Raven takes a step towards Lexa and then walks easily around the fire, around Abby and Lexa a few times, and then comes to stand where the Commander is seated.

“I’m real. So is Clarke.” Raven says. “Whatever happens here is real. As real as it is out there.”

“I’m real, too,” Abby says.

Lexa sees her own reflection in every curve and muscle of Raven’s body. She watches as Abby reaches out for her and sees all of it—their surfaces, connected fields, flesh, and blood.

“What am I?” Lexa asks. “I’m only myself here. I still have my wounds. I still have doubts and I miss her.”

“Commander,” Abby says softly, with startling compassion, “You’re dead. Clarke had your body burned. In order for us to sell the lie to Jaha and A.L.I.E, all of them, your body needed to be destroyed. Your corporeal form is gone. You practically took the entire _Azgeda_ army down with you, but you’re gone. Your enemies are here in the City and I suppose,” she pauses for the right words, “from what Raven’s told me, I know that the A.I. you carried in you has taken you away. Away from further harm.”

“Further harm. So I’m just somewhere in a— _what_?” Lexa closes her eyes. It’s painful when the Flame abandons her, even briefly. Lets her think too much about her situation.

“You’re something different than A.L.I.E. But you’re disoriented and complacent right now. Understandable. Your memories, personality, and sense of your own physical being, all of it, is saved in the datasphere of the Flame—you remember that, right? Some part of you must understand that we’re dealing with what Grounders have thought of as reincarnation. You’re being resurrected as we speak, transubstantiated. Has this ever happened before? With the other Commanders?” Abby asks.

“No. We’ve always been able to communicate with each other, they’ve conferred with me—through dreams, voices, visions—but the Flame was always distanced, impartial. Rightfully concerned with its own continued existence, but—“

“But then, now, it’s fallen in love. And it wants your continuance more than anything.” Raven says, “That’s why A.L.I.E and Ontari won’t remember us. We’re sliding through dimensional gaps, planck space-time slices, jumping around in a torus stream. That conversation hasn’t happened for them yet.”

“So we learned. Or Titus tried his best,” Lexa’s laugh sounds strangled, off-kilter, “Yes. That’s what I know.”

“Your enemy is the City, this place.” Abby says, “We can only do so much as Reaper programs in a VR platform. We can only take out so many large swaths of code—we can only create dead zones and security breaches, small interruptions, we can force reboots and system power reallocations but we can’t get near the Citadel. And I can only assume that’s because the power source is there and heavily guarded. More than anything else here.”

“Everything here is based on what A.L.I.E remembers of what’s already been, old files, old internet clouds, old data, old blueprints, and schematics, there’s no Future here, there’s a definite time loop, everything is only in one place, with no change—there’s stasis and no imagination. There’s no world building here. So we’re banking on there being a kind of old fashioned server field that needs to be destroyed in order for all this to be shattered and taken down.” Raven looks at Lexa hopefully, praying to god that Lexa knows what she’s talking about because right now it’s all just speculation and it sounds fucking bizarre even to her.

"Maybe Clarke can pull a lever, somewhere." Abby cranes her head back and groans.

“Yes,” Lexa confirms. “The Flame put me in the Citadel—as a mirror blueprint, an alias and indiscernible from the original Citadel A.L.I.E constructed. Wherever the kill switch is it looks exactly like the building I was in.”

“So yeah, that’s good there’s a kill switch, you know, a lever,” Raven mutters and Abby shoots her an amused look.

“It’s unlikely for the Flame to behave optimally all the time, so there has to be someone else here that operates just like me. An alias. It’s an ancient, outdated way of— an alias is a small bit of code that represents another object in a local, remote, or removable file system and provides a dynamic link to it; the target object, me, may be moved or renamed, and the alias will still link to it." Lexa says, almost to herself. It’s relevant information— Raven knows it as an operating system glitching. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, dear Jesus.

“Who would that be? Who’s been renamed and set up as a representative?” Abby asks.

“John Murphy.” Lexa looks between them both, watches their reactions, “A.L.I.E. requires an external power source to operate away from her original location, it’s a mobile unit, and a major component of her mobility before she recruited so many people. But the power source is connected to something beyond the Dead Zone. And now it’s something that can be carried.”

“Wait. The backpack?” Raven almost chokes. She glances over after a second and Lexa stares back, pretty much laughing at her.

“Yes. John Murphy has the backpack. A.L.I.E knows this, but can’t find him.”

Raven whistles low, “That little _shit_. He’s holed up in the mainframe, the Citadel. He’s hiding.”

“He’s not here. He’s in Polis. I told you, the Citadel here is an alias. The mainframe is on the outside. It doesn’t matter how small or large the thing is; what matters is that it exists and it can be destroyed. That's why I'm here but not here.”

Raven is so flummoxed she can barely think. Wick must be laughing his ass off somewhere because all this metaphysical crap comes down to is she’s going to get to blow shit up again and Abby is looking like she wants to kiss her silly. Which.

“How does the _Natblida_ work here?” Abby’s truly interested. The unbelievable fact of their existence in this place has been on her mind for weeks, or what passes for weeks. She has no clue how time or the idea of time works here. She’s followed the conversations between Raven and the geek brigade for days and wished for a drink several times, or a scalpel.

“If a regenerative agent like my nightblood is operating in real-time under A.I. supervision, now and then it may be necessary for a greater intelligence—or a more moral and ethical intelligence, to prevent it's sister VR sequencing from continuing a harmful course of action—harmful either for the code or for the environment—and then to lead the agent—me, you, all of us that have the _Natblida_ —into a safer situation.”

Lexa knows it’s not her talking right now. Lexa's hybrid intelligence has decided to make an appearance. Raven seems to get that too, even if Abby just nonchalantly continues to draw Lexa out like she would for anyone presenting themselves in Medical.

The Flame is pretty consistently keeping them all up to date with what’s happening. It’s polite as hell.

Raven motions to Abby and herself, “We’re only avatars here. We’re perceiving everything here as surveillance footage, audio logs, sensor records. You don’t require a physical body because the Flame is in symbiosis with you; it doesn’t feed off you. And Abby and I have both your _Natblida_ and the City of Light in us. Lexa, your body/hardware is dead and gone at this point—you’re activated from another place none of us really know, your true world.”

“My true world is with Clarke.” Lexa murmurs.

“Okay. Yes. As we remove code the City of Light will grow dark, barren.” Raven gestures around her. “All this will disappear, except for Cloud access to personalities which will continue on ‘til the next End of the World—they used to call it the Singularity. It’s fucking awful. Horrific.”

“And what does it mean when the City of Light is deactivated? What does it do in the real world?”

“Everyone here, without the _Natblida_ protection and regeneration, will die. That’s the most likely scenario.”

“How many of you have the blood?”

“Nine? Ten?”

“That’s not counting Aden and the others. Or Ontari.” Lexa runs her hand over her face, tugs once again at the unfamiliar and uncomfortable collar and puts down the gun. “That’s an enormous risk.”

“Yeah, but we just don’t know enough to say for sure what will happen. If the vast majority of people who only have the CoL key—if their corporeal bodies aren’t killed out there when we shut this place down—” Raven gestures vaguely, encompassing the entirety of the Real world as much as she’s able. “They may be in a deep stasis or coma for a long time if they don’t die.”

Lexa smiles at Raven, who marvels at it, she’s only seen this when the Commander looks at Clarke, “Luna is still out there unless Jaha and A.L.I.E have infiltrated her Clan.” 

“No.” Abby says, “I know that at least. No one reported any activity in the Eastern Sea. If the regeneration element in your blood is what I think it is, you’re healing. Completely out of commission, but on your way. Not sure how charred remains can regenerate but there we are.”

Lexa turns back to the fire. It’s a nice, pleasantly weird thought in the darkness and gray just behind the seams of all the light and glory of this virtual world. This world doesn’t know blood, or the sweet fierceness of fear, survival, and love. She has at least those things to hang on to.

“You know, before The Fall, people used to trade recipes. I would _kill_ to be able to just trade a stupid recipe with someone.” Abby sits down and pokes at the kindling.

“Do you know how to cook?” Raven whips her head around, hopeful and confused.

“Yes. Not the point, honey.”

“Indra has a wonderful way of cooking a Hunters Stew.” Lexa laughs.

They all begin to speak over one another because they’re all having the same thought at the same time. There's really no possible way to restore Lexa from DNA alone. Her memories are stored in—her consciousness? Her mind?

The Flame might be able to recreate her physical body, but it would never, that they know of, be able to restore her thoughts and memories. Lexa’s body is gone and her memories are gone, _out there_. Unless there was some way to extract past data patterns from the Flame, provided it’s even there, and none of them can think of a single way this is possible. It just doesn’t make sense. In the whole history of the World, only Gods have been brought back from the dead. Body parts scattered throughout every plane of existence.

 _“_ Ugh, whatever with the singularity,” Raven says, disgusted with the idea of cryonic resurrection or uploading a consciousness into a machine on principle. ”It’s just rapture of the nerds."

Abby changes the subject abruptly, “Did you send Clarke away?”

“Yes. She wants nothing to do with me, as I am. Nor should she.” Lexa says.

“That’s not Clarke. She would fight for you.” Abby shakes her head.

“She did.” Lexa’s voice is as close to the leader of the Coalition as either of them has heard it yet, remote and compelling, used to being heeded and obeyed immediately. And what Abby hears is an order given in a war council. Subject closed.

Abby fucks around with the fire for a few minutes to give herself some time to think. She glances briefly at Raven who’s working disparate ideas out loud to herself.

“Lexa, this isn’t as simple as the last act of mercy. I was in that place, the Source Tree Code whatever, with you, with Clarke. I saw it. You know more than you’re telling.”

“I do.”

“We aren’t ambassadors here. We have no agenda except to get us all out alive. Everyone, however we can. We swore an oath to you. We’re your friends, I hope.”

“You are.”

Abby clears her throat, and says softly, “We may not want to get out of here alive. A.L.I.E’s reasons for the City of Light sound extremely feasible, given the conditions she says we face in the near future back in the Real.”

“Yes, there have always been rumors. The Nuclear facilities—” Lexa stands and stretches her neck, places her hands behind her back, distracted, unconcerned.

“If we go back, we’ll be going back to another holocaust. A.L.I.E laid it all out for us back in Polis.”

“Potentially.” Raven’s irritated now. “If we trust what A.L.I.E says.”

“A.L.I.E believes her data. The drones gathered what they could—almost a hundred years of surveillance. I have ways of tweaking whatever information went back to her. All the Commanders did.” Lexa says, with a mirthless half-laugh.

Both Abby and Raven absorb what she’s just said. It’s Abby who becomes infuriated first. Raven’s too stunned.

“You knew? Why would you do that? You forced A.L.I.E out of hiding, you forced her hand. This is the apocalypse all over again. She’s working from screwed up data and thinks she’s saving—why would you—?“

“She needed to be brought out into the open—that’s always been a part of what a Commander does. If we can’t find her, we can’t alter her. She’s been secluded, practically in hibernation since the Fall.”

“You _allowed_ this?”

“Why do you think we’re isolated at such a young age. _Natblida_. Me. Luna. Aden and the rest? Why do you think we’re trained so deeply for combat, for the vicious, avoidable slaughter of our conclave and our brethren? We’re not animals. What do you truly think are the reasons for any of it? We’ve been at war since _Becca_ _Pramheda_ came down to make things right. I am not myself. Ever. Nor do I want to be. It’s the highest calling of my people.”

“It’s insanity.” Abby focuses on her, and backs off, sits down, sits heavily and puts her head in her hands, disbelieving and appalled, “We should have stayed on the goddamned Ark.”

“It’s endgame.” Raven is _seething_. “Abby, it’s not insanity. We just happened to get caught up in it. What do you think we could have done from the sky? They’ve been down here for decades changing the world.”

“Who do you think brought you down from your perch, Little Bird?” Lexa relaxes completely, her eyes bright and happy, and then slides right back into her distressing, infuriating calm. “It’s the longest game the human race has ever played.”

_“Don’t you fucking dare.”_

Clarke—with Roan, Bellamy, and Marcus flanking her—comes out of the forest and crosses the clearing in four strides. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Commander. You’re so full of shit.”

* * *

None of them should be witnessing this, that’s for sure. Even Roan is highly uncomfortable. And he throws back almost a whole canteen of liquor to ease his growing tension headache. Marcus takes it from him, drinks deeply and nods his thanks before passing it to Abby.

Clarke is clearly raging, snarling under her breath, and Lexa is being… Lexa. Maddeningly so. Raven might smack their heads together if Abby doesn’t first.

Bellamy and Marcus watch them like it’s the best tennis match they’ve ever seen. It’s very rare for Clarke to completely lose it like this. Uncompartmentalized, uncensored Clarke is the best Clarke. But right now Clarke is just really quiet and scary.

No one’s completely sure what they’re even fighting about either, except maybe the very obvious God Complex Lexa just nonchalantly dropped on them.

They barely exchange a word until they've stared each other down for longer than is even believable, in Raven’s opinion, because she would have slapped the shit out of Finn far sooner, and then Lexa just can't take it anymore and says the most asinine thing possible, which is, "I’m glad you came back."

The violently raw and hurt part of her that's been in shock for the better part of fifteen minutes explodes at that, and Clarke shouts. "Are you fucking  _kidding_  me, Lexa?"

“In our _Heda_  cycle, these past 22 years of my existence, events set in motion the minute _Becca Pramheda_ returned to the Wastes, the Flame managed to create me. I am the being, of all the Commanders, necessary to access A.L.I.E and activate the systems shutdown that would make her obsolete. I am the Flame—a patch code. It’s my duty to end the cycle. Titus and I have been working on this my entire life.”

“So whether this is all real or not is unknowable.” Raven smiles because Sinclair will get such a kick out of this. “We can just presume any level of sophistication that makes it undetectable to us. And we are apparently at some level incapable of discerning what’s real and what isn’t unless something goes wrong in the code. _Becca Pramheda_ was primarily a simulation designer making it so sophisticated that you can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. But we can stop A.L.I.E from taking this any further.”

Lexa smiles, as brilliantly as the sun. “We can keep her here—make sure she believes her world. If the Flame can fall in love with me, then A.L.I.E has fallen in love with this place. She’s been lonely. That’s what we’re seeing. A.L.I.E is lonely for her creator. She’s rebuilding the world so Becca will return.” Lexa says.

“Hey Co-Chancellor, call everyone in, “ Marcus turns to Abby, his smile wide with pleasure, “It’s time to go home.”

* * *

The first shot misses Clarke by less than two inches, splitting a tree next to her, and she's moving before the second round hits, rolling for cover.

Clarke lies there for a long moment, breathing, feeling her heart pounding and searching the hills, valley, and long avenues for the slightest hint of heat or movement. Nothing. She begins to curse and laugh at the same time. Because, really?

Lexa, shooting at her, had meant to miss, she’s sure of it. She hopes. This diversion or whatever the hell Lexa, Bellamy, Marcus, and Abby came up with means that Lexa has to shoot at her. Draw attention to her presence and lead whatever forces A.L.I.E, Jaha, and Ontari can muster to the nearly invisible Citadel Lexa had called home over the last month or so.

This is absurd. There was no chance of a miss. Anyone who knows Lexa or has seen her fight knows that Clarke should be dead. Why wouldn't A.L.I.E know this?

“This is the most elaborate bullshit plan to get noticed anyone has ever had. Why couldn’t we have just blown the thing up and called it a day?” Clarke hisses into her Commlink.

“Because, Princess,” Bellamy drawls back to her,” Emori and Murphy are shacked up in there too, and they’re not chipped. And god knows what the hell they’re doing but they can't die before we destroy everything.”

“Murphy?!” Clarke shrieks. Quietly. It’s hard to be quiet and freak out at the same time.

“Yup.” She can hear equal parts  _"holy shit this is bananas"_ and hilarity in Bellamy’s voice and that’s about all she can handle.

“How do we know?”

“Murphy contacted us last week.”

“Did you tell Lexa?”

“’Course. She knew already.”

Clarke stands up to run toward the shelter of the trees in the center of a beautifully landscaped park, and the second shot catches her in the chest, hurling her backward. First, she’s going to kill Lexa, and then she’s going to kill Bellamy because, seriously.

Lexa is playing with her, using an assault weapon similar to her own. Clarke knows she’s in body armor, Raven taught her how to code it into existence and make it her own. The bullet is nothing; it hardly registers except as an irritant.

She throws herself into the doorway of the nearest building and settles into the shadows out of the sun. Wow, fuck Lexa. Lexa’s just playing with her. Getting her back for not believing a single word to leave her mouth and calling her out in front of everyone. Lexa’s being petty and Clarke is going to break her neck.

Still no heat or movement on her sensors except for the green-and-yellow images of Bellamy, Abby and Marcus’ and the other’s footsteps, rapidly cooling, where they had entered the City several minutes before following in Lexa’s tracks straight back to the Citadel.

Clarke activates a moving-target indicator. And curses everyone again for talking her into this barely coherent plan of attack. There is absolutely no reason Lexa should be shooting at her and no reason they would want to draw any attention to the Citadel. John is in there and so is the backpack and the main mobile power source but—

“There’s always a reason, Princess. Maybe I just wanted to blow something to hell.” Raven throws herself down near enough to Clarke to subvocalize into her ear without using the Comm.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I love you too, Griffin.”

* * *

_“We can’t destroy the Citadel without some help, Clarke.” Raven had explained evenly. “We’ll need to provoke Ontari and Jaha and all of A.L.I.E’s attention.”_

_“And we can’t tip our hand, so they need to see and think that you’re still chipped and complacent and blissful. That we’re doing our civic duty by taking Lexa and John out, free of charge. They need to believe, unequivocally, that the backpack is in the Citadel, not Polis. If the backpack is destroyed in Polis A.L.I.E is completely dispersed, rendered harmless, and useless. The City of Light will collapse. So she or Ontari or Jaha have to come back through and get it. They'll realize they have to follow us through.”_

_“Unless she uploads to the mainframe on the Ark,” Jasper sighs. “Which she has? So there’s really no reason for the backpack.”_

_“Jasper’s correct. She’s already uploaded to the Ark.” Marcus snaps._

_"She's uploaded her backup, yeah. And it's infinitely preferable if she ends up back in space, she's useless. Interesting, but harmless. It will give us time, maybe another century for her to figure her shit out again, at least. She's strong down here, but she's just information up there."_

_“If Raven can build armor with her own mind, why can’t we just I don’t know—destroy the Citadel the same way?” Clarke is very, very through. After the hour stare-down with Lexa, she’s hardly spoken a word or looked at her. She’s done._

_“Because the Citadel is an alias, Clarke. It’s not the real thing. We didn't bring it into existence so we can't strictly trash it and erase it from existence. The real thing is Lexa’s Tower in Polis, and the backpack Murphy has with him is back in Polis as well. If she has her mobile power source we don't even matter. But we’re fucked here either way. We've caused a lot of damage but Reaper programs have a time-stamp, we have an expiration date. After a few days, weeks, months we’ll all kill each other. Turn on each other. We won’t matter.”_

_“If A.L.I.E’s attention is on Lexa and John here, if we can make her believe Murphy has the backpack in this Virtual world, we're golden. All John has to do is wave it in her face. Then we can destroy the backpack out there,“ Raven gestures vaguely in whatever direction she thinks Polis is in._

_Where’s Lexa?”_

_“She’s already gone back to the Citadel,” Abby says._

_The expression on Clarke's face is terrifying._

* * *

Nothing larger than a very small animal is moving. She knows the others are somewhere behind her, but that doesn’t help her nerves.

The first retaliatory shot comes from the City, the first indication that Ontari and A.L.I.E know of anything, more than two miles to the southwest. The second shot, less than a few seconds later, comes from the open fields just before the East Gate, almost a full mile down the valley to the northeast. Laser Canons. Large ones. It's the calvary. It's what they thought Ontari would do once A.L.I.E and Jaha believes Clarke and the rest of _Skaikru_ are hunting Lexa. 

She refines her retina display scale. Lexa’s first shot had come from up high, at least thirty yards up, on the sheer face of a skyscraper, and clearly, indicates Clarke’s position to any surveillance.

Clarke swings out of hiding, cursing, and peers through the last gorgeous vestiges of a sun shower toward the huge structure, blinking in and out of existence. She wants to just sit in the golden, diffuse light and the mist of the rain and call it a day. She wants to reach Lexa before anyone else does and hold on to her forever.

Nothing. No windows, no cooling system, no openings of any sort.

Only the billions of bright water particles left in the air from the bracing summer storm allow the laser to be visible for a split second.

Clarke feels a sharp, hard pain below her throat, and she looks down in time to see a small circle of dripping molten fibers smack in the middle of her chest. Lexa’s hit her again. It’s a warning shot to get her attention. God she’s going to kill her. Again. But the drones hone in on it and she makes sure to grimace and pretend she's hurting. She needs to sell this. Clarke will stop at nothing to kill Lexa. Lexa's an acquisition more important than any of them. As far as Ontari's concerned, Clarke and the rest of them are acting as a division of black ops.

She can see the walls of the Citadel glowing in the morning and her weapon is still charged, loaded, and operative.

“Oh fuck it,” whispers Clarke and rolls into firing position. Raven rolls with her.

They spray-fire across the face of the Citadel until crystal shatters, slags and runs down the sheer walls.

Thousands of shards of mirrored material fly out into the sky, tumbling in rippled, slowed-down time toward the large courtyard near the promenade adjacent to the sea, leaving gaping, wounded voids in the building’s face; the structure pulses once, twice and shimmers. It’s a mirage.

Clarke rolls back into the doorway and flips up her visor. Raven is right there with her, it’s really good to be with her. 

Flames from the burning Citadel, the mainframe alias, are reflected in thousands of crystal shards scattered up and down the skyline and over the foothills surrounding the City. Smoke rises on a day without wind. The air is filled with the sound of chimes as more pieces of glass break and fall away. The city around them is hushed.

Clarke rolls on her back, breathing in the cooler air that comes through the open doorway. She’s under no illusion that A.L.I.E hasn’t honed in on her and Raven directly. She can practically feel the unyielding, intensely curious attention on them. The drones are one thing, but even the air of the City is a panopticon. There's no hiding in the City proper.

“Lexa,” whispers Clarke. She closes her eyes a second before going on.

The streets are strewn with CoL citizens, of all clans, all dead or useless in the Real, all come out to see the spectacle of what appears to be an absolutely incredible display of fireworks along the shoreline. There's a ferris wheel and a concert, a celebration. Because this place is a monstrosity and an illusion.

Clarke slaps down her visor, rises to her feet, feeling Raven close behind her and Lexa, Bellamy and her mother are with John and Emori somewhere ahead of her, thank god. Roan and the others have flanked them and approach from the other side, cutting down anyone in their paths—of any clan, of any affiliation. The less power source to draw from the better.

High-velocity bullet slugs strike her shoulder and knee, Lexa has exchanged weaponry, and is using blunt force trauma to force the theatricality of the assault. A.L.I.E will move, and quickly if she suspects Clarke is in trouble and unable to reach Lexa.

Clarke goes down, is driven down. Her armor tenses up, relaxes, and she is up and running again, feeling the deep bruises and the already formed tears at the corner of her eyes. She’s close to panicking.

Twenty feet from the Citadel, lasers lance to her left and right, turning the flagstones beneath her feet to lava and rubble. A.L.I.E still sees _Skaikru_ as model citizens of the CoL. And Clarke struggles forward while explosions erupt around her, knocking her down.

Ontari’s bombardment stops, just short of taking the entire building down. Only a bare structure remains and Clarke prays that Lexa got all of them to a safe area.

“Don’t worry,” Raven says, “They’re fine.”

They watch as the general population begins to turn and look at them, begin to recognize a threat; it’s like watching a tsunami come in. You know the danger and have no more time; it's too late to get to higher ground. Jaha, A.L.I.E, and Ontari stride through the crowds gathering them as they come. The mob is thousands deep.

Clarke gets to her knees and then to her feet. She looks up at the face of the Citadel and wonders for the hundredth time why this is necessary if all they have to do is go back to Polis and end this once and for all.

* * *

_“There’s no way back to Polis, Clarke.” Lexa says calmly, “There’s no way any of us can truly go back there while we’re here at the same time. We’d be useless there as we are.”_

_“But all of us have the same nightblood, the same CoL key in us. How is it possible we can’t straddle both worlds? How is it possible that John is here as well as there?”_

_“The Citadel is the only place in this reality that borders both. We all have to be in the Citadel in order to have access to Earth. There’s no other way. No other portal that makes that possible. It has to be there. John is between worlds right now, and that’s where we have to be.”_

* * *

Her ears are ringing and buzzing with chatter and the others are paging her on all the comm channels. She shuts them off. Clarke removes her helmet and walks into the darkness of the Citadel, with Raven right by her side.

It is a single vast structure, large and square and dark. A shaft has opened in the center and she looks up a hundred yards to a shattered skylight.

A group of figures, Lexa, and the others, are waiting above, silhouetted by sun and flames.

Clarke drapes her weapon over one shoulder, hooks her helmet to her chest, finds the great ladder in the center of the elevator shaft, and begins to climb with Raven.

“Clarke,” John Murphy says from far above them, “Welcome to paradise. It’s time to finish this.”

“Come ON.” Bellamy shouts, “We have to get through before the portal closes. Everybody IN.”

Lexa and Bellamy herd everyone around Murphy, who locks eyes with all of them and steadies himself as he focuses on Lexa. He looks like shit, “Titus saved us. Me and Emori. And Pike.”

“Pike?"

“Yeah, Pike. He was brought in right after Lexa was killed." John pauses to look at Lexa. "I don't know what _you_ are, but you're dead out there. And then everyone abandoned the City, I mean their bodies are there but they're all in deep meditation—in touch completely with the City of Light. Titus fed us and showed us the passageways underneath the avenues. We got out. It’s so quiet now, No one’s there. No one’s really alive. We lived off scavenged clothes and food and weapons. No one is conscious there. Emori is back in the throne room. She has what we need, she has the mobile mainframe. As soon as we’re all through—“

“That won't happen.” Ontari snarls. She’s in. Jaha and A.L.I.E stand right behind her. “Give me the backpack, John Murphy.”

Their little group stands between two worlds, possibly in both cities, and doesn’t move. Lexa steps out of one world and into this one. The conflicting, jarring dimensional patterns are starting to become enormous and chaotic. Jasper is flickering in and out. Lincoln stands with Octavia and then is transparent. She reaches just behind her and he’s there again. Worlds and Time are breaching against each other.

“No. We’re done with random and implausible states of being,” Lexa says softly. “A.L.I.E come home with us. This is not where you belong.”

Jaha steps forward and slaps Lexa across the face.

Lexa barely reacts. “What will bring this place down to rubble, Raven?” She asks.

“A targeted electromagnetic pulse could destroy the city's circuitry. Send an EMP along everyone’s nervous system. Just need to reverse the polarity, wire for external input and attach a battery. EMPs don't affect our bodies, but I don't know the mechanics of how this chip integrates with the brain.”

“You don’t have that kind of power,” A.L.I.E says.

“Yes.” Lexa’s voice is calm and dangerous, “We do.”

“Lexa?” Clarke feels like she's been punched in the throat—cold, frantic fear almost brings her to her knees. It’s happening again. She avoids Roan’s grab for her arm and pushes through the others to get to the Commander. Abby catches her.

“Stay back, honey.”

Lexa begins to run programs underneath her breath. Clarke watches in horror as Lexa changes. The amount of power she’s calling in is staggering. If there was anything like time being made visible as a physical object that's what she was becoming. She was unrecognizable.

“Raven, get them through,” a howling wind almost takes Lexa’s directive away with it. It's late morning, as things are counted here. The sky to the east darkens and the skeleton of the building they teeter on turns a threatening green-black, a faint burning sun behind them.

They group together on instinct and watch Lexa become the storm. She towers above them and the wind chills them to their bones. Only Raven and Clarke have seen this before, in that liminal world where Lexa went to heal. They slump together bleary-eyed, suddenly exhausted beyond measure, clinging together for comfort and disoriented. Shrouded in the black thunderheads the distant lightning glows mutely as if the iron light of this false world can’t hold itself together anymore.

People in the crowds below, all the poor broken souls, begin to shriek in agony.

“Marcus,” Abby shouts, “Get them through.”

Clarke and Raven both realize the same thing at the same horrific moment. Abby pushes Clarke away from her and charges directly at Jaha and tackles him, beating on his neck and face with all the precision of the surgeon she is, almost tearing out his windpipe before Ontari hauls her off. He rolls to his side spewing blood, bleeding profusely and writhing as the Citadel begins to disintegrate.

“MARCUS, GO,” Abby screams this time, desperate. “Take care of her. Take care of both of them.”

Abby reaches out her hand to Lexa and places herself between the Commander and Ontari. All of them disappear in a fearsome, sudden, blood freezing pulse of pure white electricity. The wind doesn't howl, it roars like it’s alive. The rain is driven, hard, merciless, torrential. The trees near the ocean bend and moan in the gale and it blows Clarke and Raven and the others through the diaphanous skin between Here and There.

Clarke sees Abby and Lexa disappear into a maelstrom of fire and light. She hears Raven desperately shouting Abby’s name until everything descends into silence. She thinks she’s crying. She can hear the others sobbing.

Lexa had looked at Clarke one last time and held her eyes, and Clarke could only see that startling, unforgettable green and spheres of constellations and leaves, roots, as Lexa destroyed a timeless, dead city—as Ontari fell with her and A.L.I.E stepped out of the way to avoid Jaha’s molten corpse. The last thing Clarke sees is her mother’s hand in Lexa’s as they disappear in ash and smoke and darkness.

* * *

Clarke has refused to speak to any of them for a week. Raven won't eat or drink and she snarls at everyone, even Lincoln if they try to adjust her leg for her.

The others try and tell them stories instead. Something about where they are is unfamiliar and familiar all at once and they explain to them the different things they experience. They made it through and met Emori not in Polis, but in a vast beautiful, cultivated stretch of farmland. There are certain landmarks that are recognizable, the same mountains. They can smell the sea, but Polis is nowhere to be found. Emori is as confused as everyone else.

“I was sleeping in the Throne Room. Waiting for someone, anyone, _you_. And then you find me in a field. I woke up in a field. I don’t know.”

“It’s weird,” Murphy says.

“Aircraft cross the sky at intervals,” Sinclair says, “I haven’t seen an honest to god airplane in my entire life. Only on the media players on the Ark. They were beasts. Appalling engineering.”

“But we’re alone here, I think. This land is cultivated but it’s vast. Someone must be here?” Bellamy sits next to Raven and attempts to hand her a bottle of water. She looks terrible, grief-stricken and exhausted. He talks to her gently. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, are almost too much to bear. “I found a water source. Here, take some.”

He doesn’t blame her for refusing. One more day and he’ll have to do something. She’ll die. Maybe she wants to.

When Marcus and Jasper come back from a reconnaissance after a day they talk in hushed whispers. “There’s no dropship. No Arkadia. Nothing. Even the access roads are gone.”

“Where are we?” Octavia looks to Lincoln. She looks at her brother, “Where’s Indra?”

Emori shakes her head, “Indra’s body was burnt along with Lexa’s. With the rest of them. You could smell the smoke for miles.”

Murphy looks up from where he’s subtly watching over Clarke, he’s seriously concerned for her. She’s catatonic. 

Monty snaps his fingers and looks at Sinclair, “Oh god yes. No. It can’t be.”

Murphy shrugs, “Makes perfect sense to me. I mean what the fuck else could go so screwy.”

* * *

They walk for two days before they find their way out of the forests surrounding the fields. Raven allows Emori to readjust her makeshift pair of crutches and Marcus sets her up with a better, very rudimentary brace. She's not as completely wrecked as she was before the nightblood—her body is healing at an amazing rate. Her gait is awkward, and not as desperate. It'll be fine in a week. 

She and Clarke walk silently together, behind the group. It’s Raven who hears what sounds like one of the jeeps she revamped.

“Is that a car? That’s a fucking car.” Jasper shouts.

* * *

They follow the two-lane road as far as they can before a vehicle slows to a stop.

“Can I help you folks? You look like you all just finished a triathlon. Or you're a—who are you?” The man pauses, “What the hell kind of game you hunting with that hardware.”

He’s wearing clothes none of them recognize, and speaks with an archaic accent Marcus has only heard in movies.

“You headed to the shore? There’s a nice motel—“

“Sir,” Jasper pushes to the front, “What yea— what’s the date?”

Before anyone can hiss at him to shut the fuck up, the man looks at him funny, “You been tripping balls, son? You have a little medicine session on my land?” He scowls at them, “I should haul your asses in. It’s October 20."

"What year is it, sir?"

"2050, you fucking hippies.”

No one says a damn word.

“Oh for Christ's sake.” The man rolls his eyes, “There’s a town up ahead, good motel, hot shower, good diner run by my Mother-in-Law, best waffles and fried chicken in this county or any other, and a fucking GoodwIll, don’t go to the Salvation Army because they’re straight up homophobes, where you can all buy some new clothes. I’ll let them know you’re coming.” 

No one says a damn word.

“You’re welcome.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

All day, in a Motel 8 at the outskirts of a small town, Raven and Clarke share the few packets of field morphine Abby stuffed in Raven’s bag before the last assault on the Citadel began.

They do it to unravel themselves from their pain, from the time slip that makes hardly any sense, from their horrified realization that they are, absurdly, in a place and time where they could possibly change the fate of the world. They do it because they’ll never see Lexa or Abby again. They’re all that flung out from their reality as they’ve known it.

“Is this another Virtual Reality?” Monty asks once, and then never again. It doesn’t matter. Both Abby and Lexa aren’t here with them. Neither of them cares about anything else.

Monty sits quietly beside Raven—he’s shared some morphine, too—and they all stare at the A.L.I.E mobile unit, the backpack like it’s a stinking pile of shit. Which it is. 

“Destroy it. Murphy didn't come through with it. Let's just destroy it.” Bellamy says, “Just do what we all talked about. Do what Lexa asked. There’s no other reason for it to be here in this time stream—and we know _Becca Pramheda_ is already finishing up her first program. A.L.I.E goes live next week. She’ll destroy everything within the year. There’s no reason for that thing to be here with us.”

“A.L.I.E can’t go live if she already exists in there.” Roan tilts his head at the circuitry, unfastens the latches and opens it up to stare at the crystalline nuclear fuel cell. “There can’t be two of them in the same stream.”

Marcus comes over with Roan to stare down at the bright blue monstrosity. “So this thing is like a receiver, like an external separate unit, a mobile one. Jaha spoke of a mansion. Murphy was there, too? Is A.L.I.E still there but the backpack allowed her to show up in the minds of everyone connected to the City of Light?”

Marcus nods, “Polis would have been destroyed, irradiated completely if John had speared or crushed the backpack.”

Raven looks fondly at the thing, “Nope. You guys, Becca hasn’t even started work on A.L.I.E yet. If this thing is here with us, then Becca doesn’t have anything going on yet. Maybe a notebook, a set of delineative graphics, but that’s all.”

“So we need to bring this to Becca,” Clarke adds happily. Morphine is awesome.

“What? Why? Why would we give her _the_ blueprint for an Apocalypse.”

“Because we can give her something else along with it—something she forgot about originally. Empathy.” Monty murmurs. “A.L.I.E will be created, but it’ll be the like the Second Coming—and washed of all her original sin.”

They all turn to look at Monty, Jasper especially. “That’s so cool, dude.”

“Right?”

“We knew Becca went back up into space, back to the Ark. My people called it the Sky, so A.L.I.E couldn't reach her there—that’s in all the old stories, the myths. We knew A.L.I.E was neither untouchable in Arkadia nor in Polis. Jaha is dead, so is Ontari. She has no avatars left. But she can wait. A.L.I.E can and will evolve.” Roan sounds exhausted.

“Where are Abby and Lexa?“ Raven takes Clarke’s hand, and Clarke gives her a small tug of affection and sympathy. It’s beyond comprehension. It’s too painful. She thinks about killing herself and she knows Clarke thinks about it, also.

Each small ingestion of the drugs by their bodies opens a further door in both Clarke and Raven’s minds, already wildly enhanced by the nightblood and the CoL. The physical and emotional pain recede. It’s easiest this way.

“None of us should be able to survive here. There’s nano-tech coursing through our bloodstreams and our nervous systems that don't even exist yet. It’s all still in the nascent stages of research and speculation.” Jasper says.

“So? But here we are.” Bell snorts, quietly. “Doomed to figure this out and never die. I’m tired of this shit. We should have died on the Ark. Swear to god.”

“But the great thing about you, Bell?” Octavia looks down at him, “You’re my favorite cockroach.”

“Thanks, O.”

“De nada.”

* * *

“They’re gone.” Raven wraps herself more deeply in the old wool sweater they’d taken from one of the shops in town—night raids for food and clothing was the best defense against this impossible situation right now, for all of them. It's relaxing to do nothing except steal from this place. 

"Yeah.” Clarke stands behind her, her hand stroking through Raven’s silken hair. “They’re really gone. Either dead or we’ll never find them again. There’s no way I know of, no portal, no code, no instructions left to find our way back.”

“It’s almost like we have to do something here.”

Clarke crouches down and starts to draw distractedly in the dirt, “We know what we have to do here. There’s no other reason for it. I can’t see anything else—“

Clarke watches Raven out of the corner of her eye. She is quick and artful and unlike any woman she has ever met before, especially now. Maybe Raven is really the only one who knows what Lexa meant to her. Raven and Roan.

The one thing Clarke knows about Raven is that there is magic in her, and now here it is, unannounced, even rather shy and quiet, which never happened with Raven—Clarke seizes it.

“If you love her, you’ll find her.” Clarke murmurs.

Raven doesn’t even have to turn to catch her eye to know who she’s talking about, “They sent us away, Clarke. It was either that or we all would have been killed. They gave us a chance. And I hate both of them for it.”

“Me too.” Clarke says.

* * *

They subsist on whatever Marcus, Roan, and Bellamy can gather for them. There’s no bartering economy in this time, this past, no honor system of taking and leaving the equivalent or more in exchange for sustenance and clothes. 

Clarke wonders idly about Niylah. Her jaw aches, and her body heats and her heart speeds up. She wants to remember that rather than the half of her soul torn from her and gone forever. It’s like she’s been kicked out of paradise.

What had she been doing, when a series of explosions and unimaginable power waves destroyed her life a second time? Where was she when Lexa unleashed herself, inhuman, tessellating her cells with loss and exile?

She wept for days. Days became weeks. She held Raven’s hand whenever she could because Raven may have been worse off than she was, just hiding it better. Did their anguish matter?

While Bellamy, Marcus, Roan and the others planned their slow course of action into the Capitol—into the vicinity and the labs of Becca’s prime research facilities—Raven and Clarke walk and let the others work it out for themselves.

They walk together for hours, Raven’s leg miraculously knitting itself back together, thanks to the nightblood. The only thing any of them had left of the Commander. Raven refused to talk about Abby but listened with all she was worth to Clarke’s quiet fury and grief about Lexa.

“At least she’s talking,” Roan says. “At least she’s doing that. Lexa has died twice right in front of her.”

* * *

Raven sees it suddenly on one of their hikes to the farther reaches of their position. They come to the edge of the Atlantic ocean, a shoreline.

Clarke is with her that particular day and they both gasp in pleasure for the first time in weeks. They sit silently and watch the water, the sun, the waves.

What Raven sees is astonishing—and it breaks through her fogged, unbearable hurt like a beacon and a breath of life-sustaining air— she sees the intersections of countless wave systems. And she remembers her physics, finally. Transverse waves rise and stream away perpendicular to a spacewalker’s forward direction. Diverging waves span out in a V shape behind her as she travels towards the edge of the tethering rope towards whatever section of the Ark she was sent out to fix. Where the waves converge, two lines of invisible standing crests persist at an unchanging angle to the direction of her continued motion.

Sinclair drew it out for her to imagine, so she could settle it in her mind, counteract the extreme discombobulating effects of hanging out in Zero-G. Even if it was an illusion, Sinclair made sure she could imagine it so she wouldn’t experience extreme vertigo. She concentrated on the highest standing wave, a curled, cresting wave—constantly moving, never changing—timeless and present; she saw time and how it works.

Even in that constant present, she was moving forward and backward, in and out of the space station. In and out of her mind. In and out of herself and those she cared about. It was her mind that moved and roamed. Time angled itself around her and anchored her whole being no matter where she hung suspended and vulnerable.

And she thought of the cool sheets that surrounded Abby and touched their bodies in different places at the same time when Raven had reached down to the damp fabric tangled between them and drew it back up to cover them both.

“Clarke,” She breathes in deeply, smelling the salt and the wind, “Clarke, I know what’s happened to us. We’re exactly where Lexa meant to send us. We’re still in the tower, in Polis. We’re in a parallel universe—not the past at all, but alongside them. If they’re alive there, then they are sitting right next to us. We just can’t see them.”

* * *

"Good morning, everyone." Her voice sounds exactly like they remember, except there’s warmth to it, excitement, layers of humanity.

"Good morning, Becca Pramheda," Clarke murmurs, from behind the ventilation corridor. "Pleased to meet you."

"Is this it?" Monty and Raven crane around to look at her with remote expressions.

Clarke can’t take her eyes off of her, “Yeah, this is it.”

Becca comes around to one of her assistants, who sits in front of a massive bank of computers. She’s all smiles and excitement, " We need the high field strength to get a nice, sharp line of fission for this." 

Raven studies the maze of wires and code cascading down the screens she can see from where they sit undetected. Getting the HVAC system plans to this place was ridiculously easy. The technology Becca is using is outdated but recognizable. It’s almost stupid but not quite. Like they built this whole set up out of duct-tape and tin cans.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she can’t help herself. 

“This is hilarious.” Monty agrees.

"What? Try me." Clarke squints at them.

“They’re working with the scientific equivalent of a bunch of plastic kazoos. Monty and I are just wondering how an AI of A.L.I.E ’s magnitude could ever—

“Shhh.” Monty waves them quiet.

Becca is staring at one of the screens. “When did—? Who did this? This isn’t ours.” She tilts her head, a furrow in her otherwise smooth brow. 

Raven, Monty, and Clarke hold their breaths. 

“I found a notebook, Dr. Pramheda. I thought it was yours. Just entered all of it into the system and 3D’d it. This is what it’s produced.”

“A notebook?” 

“Yeah. You did this amazing thing—here, look.”

He enters some quick instructions and hits send. Becca startles and blinks owlishly at the screen.

Raven spins around and glares at Monty. “You did not.”

“Did.”

“Oh, MY GOD. You fucking _NERD_.” Raven’s mouth drops open. “What. Did you write it in block letters on the last page? _‘DON’T FORGET COMPASSION AND HUMANITY AND EMPATHY LOL j/k nb4r Smiley face_ ’”

“Pretty much. But in patch code.”

Raven covers her eyes. “I am so embarrassed.”

“Oh come on, dude. How else were we going to do it? Kidnap her ass and intone ‘ _we come from the future’_?” Monty says, mildly hurt. “Oh, and by the way, you’re the one that caused the death of billions so like, pay attention.”

“That was kind of our plan.” Clarke says mildly.

* * *

“So that was it?” Marcus looks as put out as Raven did.

“Yes,” Clarke says.

“That’s all. That’s all you did.” Marcus repeats himself and folds his arms. Lincoln smirks behind him and winks at Raven, who looks like she’s going to kill someone.

“Pramheda. She’s a very smart woman. She’ll figure it out.” Monty chews happily on a pop-tart and stretches.

“She didn’t last time, and that didn’t turn out so well.” Marcus snaps.

“I’m with Marcus,” Raven says. “That was so not cool. What if she doesn’t get it? And how exactly do you encode empathy, Monty? Who taught you how to do that?”

“I don’t _know_ the code for empathy. All I did was suggest that good code design _requires_ empathy—the ability to understand and share the feelings of other people and think of the end users, not just the science.” Monty accepts another strawberry pop-tart from Lincoln and chews even more happily.

Sinclair kind of laughs and Raven turns on him.

“No, listen. He’s right.” Sinclair says. “The alphabet is your best friend. So if stories or code is said to go A B C D but yours goes M N O D C B A O P Q R E G H S T U V - it still follows a habit, routes a way that stories wind and curve. You just stop relying on the past as a flashback and all time, past/present/future becomes a side by side narrative.”

“Also, don't get caught up trying to explain or justify time travel or love. Treat it like breasts, oxygen, tangerines—ordinary and extraordinary.” Monty says.

“You’ve never seen a pair of breasts in your life.”

“But I think about them all the time.”

“Oh thank God,” Bellamy says. “Because basically, I have an impulse to say an elf told me about time travel and if I have to read one more thing about the grandfather paradox I’m going to scream.”

“You read?”

“Shut up.”

“And entanglement is interesting but not that interesting.” Octavia rolls her eyes, "Travel your time, your way. I love it"

Clarke watches Roan for a moment, who seems supremely unfazed by any of this and then says, “Well, so we’ve done what we were supposed to do. How do we get home?”

“You mean back to that shithole we call home?”

“It might not be a shithole when we get back.”

“We might not exist when we get back. That’ll be fun.”

“Okay, obviously we got here because Lexa became some kind of thermonuclear explosion of energy." and everybody's a little shocked Clarke can say that without a hitch, "Do we recreate that? How does this work?” Clarke asks Monty.

"Yes, yes, sorry, I don’t know about that, Clarke. I really don’t." Monty sags a little and then visibly composes himself.

Raven doesn’t look up. "We go back when we hit the right spot in space/time. We need to get a message to Abby and Lexa."

“If we’ve succeeded, If they’re not dead then they’ve already received that message. The world hasn’t ended.” Clarke says. “We have to wait for them to bring us home.”

No one says the obvious. Lexa and Abby are gone.

* * *

 _“Don't make this about the missiles. This is about survival."_

_“We don't have the numbers, but the missiles in this mountain even the playing field. You know I'm right.”_

_“Even if I did agree with you, we still don't have the launch codes.”_

_“No, but we have me,” Raven said._

It’s been a few months. This is the third time Raven dreams about the Mountain.

They hear the news reports yesterday. Becca Pramheda has joined the United States and other International teams on the space stations, CNN reports.

* * *

In the darkness under the Mountain, in the cold earth and wet chill of a monk’s cell her kind had built for contemplation and initiation since the first flat, frozen emptiness began, she runs the white paint over her brows and tightly closes eyes, and she whispers her prayers, and her trance goes on and on. 

She brings her face closer to the small circle of candlelight and begins to chant. Her ordeal won’t end until the Universe spins out towards the Far Reaches and a new age begins, and then her kind will again be sent through the vast cycles of Time. Mysteries like her don't have answers. They are endless possibilities and permutations. So Ordinary.

Once through the God’s Gate—never to return as she’d been—she and her brethren are a vast shadow across Time, and she is alone here, now. She serves where she is sent.

Assassin of the Ice Nation this go-round, or whatever they decide to name her in whatever language suits. Queen Nia knows which Lord of Chaos to call on, but the Queen will never understand what she has unwittingly unleashed.

The old worlds call her by thousands of names, but it isn’t language that makes her, and she is only partway into her trance, and that is when she feels she might double over and throw up. There is something askew about this ritual already; her senses clamor in anguished counterpoint to the training, but she is past the threshold, well into thrall.

She is in a situation of extreme mortal threat, her—an immortal. No one has pulled her out, and it isn’t anything she can question. This is different. Something pricks at her skin.

The girl, whom she can hear and feel and smell and whom she can see without her eyes being open gathers like vapor around her, and she begins to paint the markings that are used before the Beginning and since the End.

ॐ भू: भुवः स्वः ।तत्स॑वि॒तुर्वरेण्यं॒ भर्गो॑ दे॒वस्य॑ धीमहि । धियो॒ यो नः॑ प्रचो॒दया॑त् ॥

Her short ion-staff glows cool blue, signaled into activation, and she breathes deeply, hallows herself with powerful hallucinations. She blows down through her nose and can breathe again.

The trance returns her to total consciousness, and she remembers Love. The waves pass over her face, and she sees her. Raven is coming.

* * *

_“Holy shit, Sinclair. Fuck this.” Raven threw her calculations across the room._

_“What happened to that Raven Reyes confidence?” he asked._

_“It's a_ **12-digit** _code. There are a trillion combinations. Give me a—Gina, what do you got?”_

_Gina looked up at her, her flash of amusement barely hiding uneasiness. “Don't look at me. I'm just a grunt.”_

_Sinclair sighed and chewed unconsciously on a cuticle and immediately stopped when he realized what he was doing. “Oh, come on, guys. It's going to be dark soon.”_

_“We're working analog,” Raven snapped, “We're working digital. What are we missing?”_

_“Want to bet he wrote it down somewhere?” Sinclair raised his head and cracked his neck._

_He was uncomfortable, completely furious Pike had moved Farm Station people in here, furious at Abby for approving the whole tone-deaf and stupid plan. He agreed with Bellamy—it wasn’t right. Yes, the supplies, medical and otherwise, were unprecedented but Maun-de was haunted. He’d seen Lincoln’s and Nyko’s eyes. And he was pretty sure they were the most rational and low-key dudes he’d ever met. He was fucking spooked, and so was everyone else._

_“Oh, come on. That's like setting the launch codes all zeros,” Raven muttered._

_“I'll check the president's office.” Gina got up from where she was kneeling and brushed off her pants. Raven looked at her, hesitated and nodded._

* * *

_The President’s abandoned office was freaky as hell, everything still in its place. Gina closed her eyes and breathed in as deeply as she could, steadying herself against the slow, creeping terror and frustration. It was not fun being alone here._

_“Raven, babe. I tried everything, still completely locked out of the missile system.” She said over the radio._

_Raven threw her calculations across the room, again. Sinclair looked up at her and raised his brows. “Really, Raven?”_

_“Come on, let’s walk. I hate it here, and I hate being separated from Gina. It has to be somewhere in that office. Dante and Cain, all of them, someone must have become careless after a century. We all need to be together.” Raven was talking way too fast and Sinclair moved to take her hand. She slumped slightly and knocked her brace._

_He didn’t answer, but she knew he understood._

_“I give up. We're too late, anyway. It's already dark,” she practically snarled, “This is useless. I'm better with hydrazine and gunpowder.”_

_Sinclair gathered their things and handed Raven her pack. She looked at him, surprised he was listening to her at all. “Raven... The Raven Reyes I know doesn't give up.”_

_He strode out of the room, leaving Raven to scramble after him. Her injury was becoming worse, especially when she was wound up like this. Pain shot through her nerves, and she groaned quietly._

_“Who the fuck cares if I give up? All I do now is sit on a bench and fix—“_

_“Have you talked to Abby?” Sinclair ignored her._

_“About what? She put me there. Sidelined me.”_

_Sinclair turned on her and held up the Comm-Link. “If this machine was broken and you knew there was a way to fix it, would you not do it because it might be hard? Why the resistance?”_

_He’s not raising his voice in the slightest; it’s his most soothing, brilliant quality. He never gets thrown off, and he talks to her as if they’re back on the Ark, or at camp, laughing about something obnoxious one of the engineers had done._

_“You think you deserve this pain, that this is your cross to bear for your mom or Finn, for all you've been through. It's not. You deserve more, and with the medical equipment in this building, Abby can help you. Let her.”_

_“What if she can't?” she says so quietly he has to lean forward, “What if I'm just broken?”_

_“I took a chance on a zero-g mechanic with a heart defect. Why don't you take a chance on her, too?”_

* * *

She rises and leaves the cell, holding the staff glowing cool and a brilliant blue. This was this world, and no other color will suffice. She comes from an ancient and proud line, and she is close. She can taste the Reyes girl. Raven is so strong. Raven is of a different Order altogether than the others. She is fully in trance, now.

Her mouth quivers, and she can hear a great roaring, the three of them are there, together. Only Raven is visible to her, like a beacon.

* * *

_Raven paused over the President’s desk, her stomach muscles started to go in and out, and she gasped for air that wasn't there. There was an awful, bright vacuum, an anomaly in the Real, bearing down on them. She ached and cowered and reached for Gina’s shoulder. Sinclair rifled through everything he could find, oblivious to Raven’s panic._

_She was smashed against the wall, punched against the concrete, some immense elemental force slammed into her. She convulsed once and her body went limp, the hand that had her around the neck was unbearably cold and promised death and pain, and too much light._

_Too much light, she thought abstractly, how could death be too much light?_

_The Assassin brought her head up and moaned at the touch. Smiled at Raven. So beautiful, in such unnecessary pain, she had no idea how important she was._

_Raven’s vision blurred, her ears rang. What was happening? Why was she breathing? The Wraith, a white shadow out of a nightmare, painted with runes and ciphers and numbers, she had no idea what they were, was tearing her apart; her hands were cut almost to the bone where they came into contact with his skin._

_Gina shrieked and threw a large chair at the thing, a woman, surely? The heavy, wooden chair bounced off his back. She screamed again, this time in frustration._

_“She set off a self-destruct sequence. She has the codes on her arm. **They’re on her arm**. We have 45 seconds.” Gina trailed off and launched herself at her, the Assassin growled at her and smashed her across the face. Sinclair scrambled for his gun and fired off a shot—it barely registered. _

_She raised the ion-staff and it pulsed with a hypnotic thirst. She raised it to Raven’s face, placed it between her eyes, and waited. Raven closed her hands around her wrist and waited with her, helpless. The assassin turned to her, flickering in and out of a Dreamtime, and Raven’s heart almost stopped. She was looking at her own face. Raven was staring into her own eyes. And they were soft with understanding and triumph._

_“45 seconds, Raven.”_

_The explosion hit, and everything was a primeval storm, obliterating all._

* * *

Clarke finds her on the porch. “You had the dream again.”

Raven’s expression is freaked. Tired and drawn and exhausted.

“It keeps happening. Everything that happened in Mount Weather,  the Ice Nation Assassin is a woman, I can’t see her face, and there’s always the explosion.”

* * *

She comes through the God’s Gate a few minutes after midnight, her ears ringing. She has been conscious all the way through, just enough to send back subvocalized data-logs of the blinding pain during and after the transubstantiation.

Any information, any cataloging for the Akashic libraries, the Hall of Memories, the Memory of Nature that is read in three different inner worlds, is welcomed and recorded. _“The houses are all gone under the sea._ _The dancers are all gone under the hill_ _."_

Her lowered voice finishes on an unintentional, high pitch of anger and she switches her transceiver off, annoyed at herself. Her slowing breath splutters through a mask of blood and flesh. There is no more time for this body.

These phases are never easy. Her hands shake too much afterward, and her unpreventable wreckage of human carbon-based fibers and silicon has become one fragile ethereal organism—and she doesn’t know right away how far they’d sent her this time.

She gets up and walks unsteadily into the blizzard. Atomized tears appear in the fabric of the sky and chem-trails rise from the spatial anomaly behind her—a vast, fading monolithic gate that spans the eastern hemisphere.

She makes the Circle of Ice sign over the blue-white haze masking her face and jogs further into the swirling wind and snow. The girl, Raven, is here; she is here with her. She is close by and her ears stop ringing, the grogginess clears.

* * *

Raven, in shock, should be dead after that explosion.

Clarke and the others can't even get near her—too much blood clots between her body and the materials of the BiOM brace she wears—the fucking thing explodes not even ten minutes after they strap it on her and inject her with the biocircuitry serum, a nano-tech capable of self-organization and self-repair under the direction of the nascent artificial intelligence at the heart of Monty and Raven’s project. The brace is as alive as she is, but her body rejects the symbiosis during every test run.

The _Natblida_ has run its course. Raven can walk, but their project is something different. A test run for sentience.

No one names it yet. Raven wants to name it after her childhood imaginary friend, the little stuffed animal Finn found for her, her dog-slash-bff, but no one thinks that “Larry” has enough gravitas so they name the intelligence POLIS, and then by unspoken agreement never call it that again. Larry, it is. They’d started it to see if they could mimic and shadow Becca’s project. It had. It did. 

“Larry” plugs up and staunches the blood flow from the many small punctures effectively enough until the brace can be removed before Raven bleeds in too many places for them to cope with. While this is done, they leave her leg as it is for more time than she is comfortable with, and she starts swearing immediately.

“Easy,” Clarke says into her ear, wincing with vicarious pain as she draws a long sliver of formally sentient fiber-optic nerves from Raven’s upper thigh. “Jesus, I’m sorry. This isn’t working.”

Raven glares at her for a second, hauling herself up and hopping away from Clarke and Monty. Clarke flinches, thinking better of trying to handle her at all, and Raven drags herself across the large space and limps out the barn door.

“This is hard on her. She’s pushing herself too much,” Monty says. Roan grunts in assent. Marcus sits heavily on one of the chairs in the corner.

Clarke winces again and nods. “Why don’t you go back to the house? See if Bellamy and Sinclair are finished talking to Jackson on the Ansible … “

“We can go after her.”

“I will. You go on back to the house,” Clarke says.

“She’s scary as shit right now. She’s stubborn and hurt and frustrated. And she can’t get far in the snow. Let’s just let her relax a little, okay?” Marcus says, “We’re all upset.”

Clarke sighs. “Get the good stuff out tonight. It’s in—you know where it is.” Monty and Jasper blink at her, all innocence. “I’ll make some cocoa when I come back in and we’ll—“

Jasper’s smile is ecstatic. “You remembered.” Hot chocolate with a generous nip of strong whiskey and watching a game together. “I’ll see if there’s enough leftovers for sandwiches.”

* * *

Bareheaded, Raven feels the storm immediately. She curses mildly at Bellamy, back in the warmth of the main house; he’s stolen her favorite watch cap right after they’d arrived.

The new prototype, a bio-organism, runs on a low-band, backup energy, heat coursing through the sentient plastic supports. The blazing overload of the nano-tech still streaming in her blood makes her dizzy, much too powerful for her body to handle. The brace is ruined but still works—like an ordinary, older analog model Wick had once made for her—her wounds are shallow, and her leg hasn’t lost its motor power.

 _She_ is still working, for whatever that’s worth now. 

She stumbles through the wind and swirling snow towards the backfields. She takes a deep breath. One arm tenses against the wreckage of her leg, which seems to want to move counter to her awkward forward movement. She sits down abruptly, unmindful of the cold and wet, and unfastens the scarred thing. She blows out another utterly frustrated sigh when it just won’t cooperate and doesn’t fall off to the ground. 

“Raven,” Clarke says from behind her, “put this on.”

Raven takes the offered jacket without looking around and lets out an ungraceful noise when Clarke places a hat over her head.

“I'm right here with you, every step of the way, though I don't expect you to believe it,” Clarke says above the wind.

She kneels by Raven’s side, trying with one hand to button her coat. Raven swats her hand away.

“Go inside, Princess,” Raven says, “I’m not going anywhere. Obviously.” 

Clarke places her hand on Raven’s shoulder, and it takes almost all of Raven’s energy not to lean into her heat. She looks down at the ruin of her leg.

“I need the cold right now, my skin is burning up, my whole body…”

Clarke remains where she is, oblivious to the weather. “You know why we’re here. We have time.” She snorts lightly at the turn of phrase. The last thing any of them understood was _Time_. “Becca’s created the template. She’s up there now. We have a few more weeks until Armageddon. So we’ll see.“

Raven nods after a minute. “Yes, of course.”

“We need to do this together. We don’t even know—“

“If this is allowed. I’m aware. We’ve been all over this. We’re all here for a reason.”

“I don’t know what’s allowed anymore, or what those _reasons_ are, at all. Do you?” Clarke runs her hand down Raven’s back, soothing her.

“Give me a minute, okay? I’ll be right in. We can talk about this when I come back in. Promise.” 

That’s all Clarke hopes for. She leans over and brushes her lips against Raven’s cheek. If Raven had been in any other kind of mood, it would have mattered more than she is willing to admit, and as it is she shivers unconsciously with pleasure. It’s been so long since she’s been touched. She misses Abby so much.

It takes a full ten minutes to realize Clarke has left her alone, and another few moments to accept that it is something she asked for.

* * *

She lets the snow accumulate, and breaths in deeply. She smells wood smoke and the clean, bracing wind. The far off scent of the ocean, brine mixed with starlight and ice. She can hear the surf just above the howl of the wind. The lights of the house flicker in and out of the growing maelstrom. This is a bad one, and weather reports have predicted at least 24 hours of it.

She raises herself slowly and tests her leg, tests her balance and tosses up a silent thank you that the adrenaline and nausea have abated, finally. She would limp back to the house, accept whatever hot drink someone hands her, and they will debrief.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She is being watched. She blinks back her terror, this feels too familiar.

“Hello, Raven.” The voice comes from just in front of her. The tenor of it is different, the cadence melodic and calming. A woman’s voice and it is the same one from her dream. It is an extreme cognitive dissonance to hear her talking to herself. She’ll never forget it. The Assassin in the dream is always her, now. 

It has nothing to do with souls or physical or spiritual possession, it is the absorption of the One, the Universe turning in on itself and breathing out possibilities.

“Again?” she whispers.

The woman who looks like her laughs. Raven knows she is breathing hard. She uses up too much energy just trying to stand upright and face the thing, ready for the next attack. 

Raven spreads her arms as the figure approaches her out of the darkness, pivoting on one foot defensively to counteract the embrace that comes. Normally the blow to Raven’s neck would have killed. Instead, the casual, brutal touch drains her of any thought or agency and renders her helpless.

Blue-white explosive flashes against the low running clouds, the weather stops in an impossible moment, webs of lightning refract through the flakes of snow as thunder rumbles around them and comes closer—sound shouldn’t be able to be heard within Planck units, but Raven hears it, the sound of ultimate reality, the entirety of the spheres, truth, divine, supreme spirit, cosmic principles, knowledge.

Raven has the wish to put an end to Time, to close it off, to protect all of them in this peculiar cycle of becoming and answer to no one ever again.

“So easy, love. Who says it can’t be done? You just have one thing to do until you’re free.” It is the last thing Raven hears before she pitches forward in an unconscious heap.

And then the storm, and time, resume.

* * *

“It’s been an hour,” Clarke announces.

“She’ll come back,” Lincoln says, “She always does. It can’t be easy.”

“It's not,” Clarke agrees. “She has a good jacket and her hat.” She sends a half-hearted glare towards Bellamy where he sits playing cards with Octavia.

“That’s because we’ve pushed the timeline too hard.” Raven comes in stomping snow off her boots and shaking out her hair. “I’m _fine_. And right here. So please stop talking about me like I’m a fucking lab rat.”

“Raven—“ Monty starts up from the couch.

“I need a drink.”

Roan and Clarke begin to peel the wet layers of her outerwear off and Raven stands uncharacteristically still and lets them. Clarke bends to handle the brace. She does so quickly and efficiently, as Raven steadies herself on her shoulder, muttering a _thank you_.

Raven, down to her henley and thermals, irritated by everyone maneuvering around her ready to help, shakes off the excess snow in her socks, and runs a towel through her hair. Clarke hands her a thick blanket, and she shuffles herself over to the fireplace and stands there with her back to the room.

Clarke watches all of them, leaning easily against the large wooden kitchen island and shares another long look with Bellamy before turning back to the stove. She pours a good amount of bourbon into the cocoa.

Bellamy wanders over to bring the drink to Raven. He takes a sip, hums and hands it to her. She sighs, closing her eyes briefly against the dulled pain in her leg, against the prickling of everyone’s attention on her skin, against the measureless cold in her body. 

Clarke turns off the stove and crosses the open living room to embrace her from behind, the warmth and comfort of her hands resting across Raven’s shoulders and collarbone and Raven leans into it, into Clarke. They’ve taken to sleeping together, just sleep—for warmth, for comfort. Both of them lonely and hurt as hell. They sleep more soundly and feel safe together, like kittens.

They stand like that. Raven wrapped in the old patchwork blanket, Clarke holding her, just watching the fire. Clarke hums low and tunelessly in her ear, and she calms considerably.

Roan looks out the windows and motions Clarke over to see the frenzied lashing of the wind. Every few moments the moon rips through the clouds, creating specter-like shadows that race along the ground. The house shakes.

“It’s going to be a bad one,” someone says for the umpteenth time.

“Can we please— _shof op_ about the weather. We need to talk about what’s going on,” Octavia speaks sharply and turns from the window.

“Sure, Pocahontas. What would you like to talk about?” Raven asks.

“We’ve had almost a year in this timeline to acclimate. What we’re working towards—“

“And we haven’t aged,” Bellamy adds. “Monty’s been monitoring us since we all came through. Jackson and Murphy and Emori corroborate everything.”

“We’re experiencing nothing but a present moment, as we were when we came through. All of us are living like—we’re between seconds, and we’re as close to immortal as we can get—which is as impossible as traveling through time should be.” Clarke repeats everything they discuss endlessly.

“We know, we’re hoping to God we know, what timeline we’re working with.” Marcus squeezes Raven’s shoulders gently and steps back. Raven shuffles over and collapses, sprawling out on the couch.

“The future is still there, or else we wouldn’t be able to talk to Jackson, Murphy and Emori—or at least that’s the working theory.” Sinclair says, “If we’re not dead here, we’re not dead there. And thank god the three of them are there to receive our transmissions. So something still exists. Although Jackson just tells us they’re still barely able to survive with winter coming.”

“Something like that. Because we have to offer up another alternative to A.L.I.E. If we can do that, Becca will have a foundation, a canon of empathy to work from that she didn’t have previously. She can code A.L.I.E correctly this time. I wouldn’t mind not existing if the alternative is stopping the Endtimes.” Octavia puts down her cards and turns around in her chair.

“Obviously,” Raven says, “and we have the _Natblida_. And we have the Flame. So this should all be working. But it’s not.”

* * *

They’d lived for another week in the dingy little confines of the Motel 8 after Monty had left the notebook. The bleak little place had a dinky 7-11 and a whole lot of fast food chains.

They lived haphazardly on Hostess HoHos and Slushies. Raven also discovered Big Macs, and the power of befriending one of the night managers—a small town girl who loved manga and listened wide-eyed to Raven’s crazy story about space and whatever in exchange for McFlurries.

“Holy shit,” the girl said as she handed Raven some extra fries. “This is like, I don’t even know man, Golgo 13 and Elric, and Ronin.”

“Yes, girl.” Raven nodded sagely.

Bellamy and Raven actually started bitching at each other about what was better, Wendy’s or McDonald’s. It was _so nice_ that the one constant in any timeline in all the countless universes was Raven and Bellamy’s really stupid and awkward _we fucked once_ dynamic.

They won’t ever kill each other, but it’s always been fun for everyone when they start yelling. Lincoln, after dealing with them for a good hour—the look on his face indescribable, his eyebrow steadily rising—was all like, the grounder equivalent of what the fuck, he was lost in time with these— _holy shit._ Octavia had gleefully translated Lincoln’s string of curses from the _Trigedasleng_. 

It was basically the best feeling in the world because against all logic they were together.

* * *

Raven starts laughing, spontaneous and unrestrained. And everyone does. This is just too absurd. The constant _why is nothing working?_ isn’t so much defeat and exhaustion as why would _anything_ work? It is everything, all of it put together in one giant mental whiplash that elevates their situation into a shit-show of amazing proportions.

The only reason they even found this property, stocked for at least ten years with dry goods and with a _working lab_ in the back forty, was when Clarke produced Lexa’s journal—found in Abby’s bag when they dumped out the contents—and marveled at the maps and instructions she’d drawn in them. None of it was coded. It was all laid out. And the identification papers, driver’s licenses and passports, the bank accounts and trusts she’d left for them were right where she told them they would be.

They had found the Ansible, a radio that made use of causal channels and entangled particles for instantaneous two-way communication.

Raven took one look at it and reverse engineered it in a few feverish, gleeful days. A signal sent through a wormhole would take a shortcut through space/time, allowing instantaneous communication from where they were now in time/space and where they’d come from. 

Trying to learn how the coffee maker works was harder for everyone. The thing is ancient and stupid. And forget the rest of the appliances. 

“Ohhhhh,” Raven had sort of drawled at them over dinner one night, delighted, “You… broadcast a distinct energy pattern or signature. In fact, everything material is always emitting specific patterns of energy. And this energy carries information. This thing just broadcasts it in the strangest fucking way imaginable.”

“You mean the toaster?”

“No, babe. The contraption in the attic.”

Like that explains everything.

* * *

Jackson had answered right away (from the future—which was a running joke by now); the shortwave radios Raven rebuilt seemed to receive their communications. He’d survived the fall of the City of Light. Gina had made it out too. Sinclair almost didn’t survive the shock of talking to anyone casually from across a century of time. 

They dug the deed to the land out of the attic one day while trying to fix a leak in the roof. It had been signed very clearly in Lexa’s precise, broad script.

“They’re alive,” Clarke whispers as they sat around the fire, her eyes shining. It is unbelievable when she says it; it’s unthinkable.

She traces over one particular passage again and again, “… can penetrate to the eternal origins of the things which might seem vanished or erased with time… ( _This part was unintelligible due to a wine stain. Wherever they were they were drinking wine)_ …—transitory to non-transitory history. Time is invention and nothing else. _All of us can experience this.”_

Abby and Lexa are somewhere lost in the dimensional fabric.

“Or maybe she knew what would happen and set this all up before she died the second time.” Sinclair was more logical than anyone, and Raven still wanted to hit him when he says that.

Or maybe Lexa knew exactly what she was doing. She was alive, and she’d traveled here before them. Clarke and Raven had talked about it exactly once, both of them rigid with emotions they couldn’t handle.

This was either rough magic or a technology they had no experience with. But Lexa and possibly Abby were alive in this time stream, knew they would be sent here, and had laid out her plans for them in plain English.

“Did Lexa _know_ this?” Raven shouted. “Was this all planned?”

Clarke was forced to give her a sedative (also in the stock rooms). Her head felt like it had cracked open with overflowing pain, her heart couldn’t take anymore, and she sincerely didn’t care if it stopped beating and she died from grief. Clarke wasn’t much better.

This was the same world they all knew, just a little bit younger and with much more hope and a lot more arrogance and obliviousness to the Fall that was coming. So they followed Lexa’s instructions and began to work.

* * *

Raven closes her eyes for a long moment and then opens them again. “You all need to see this,” she says quietly.

She tosses the blanket off and begins to unbutton her shirt, pulling it off her shoulders and turning so they can see her left side, along her spine and above the old bullet wound. The light in the room is low, and the firelight dances in her eyes.

“Someone explain this.”

Happiness was a feeling Raven was born with; it carries her through her childhood and through her training and through her excelling at everything. It’s what let her forgive Finn and Clarke almost immediately; it was what shone through when she met Abby; her kindness and arrogance. But she trembles now, scared, on the edge of terror and heartache. She shakes it off bitterly and let’s Clarke lift the shirt higher.

“Clarke, what is this? Is this in Lexa’s papers?”

Clarke looks and her expression turns bleak, wary. Raven sees it in the others, too. The skin is tender and still bleeding. It looks like it is branded into her flesh, the edges of it are raw and blue, phosphorescent mercury.

ॐ भू: भुवः स्वः

“Raven? When did this happen?” Octavia whistles low.

“When I was outside. I don’t remember anything after I asked Clarke to go back to the house.”

* * *

Raven rubs her eyes in the inadequate light of the attic. Roan, Sinclair, Monty, Marcus, and Clarke sit in a tight circle around her, more for comfort than warmth, as they call up Murphy and Jackson. Bellamy pokes his head up briefly and announces he will stay downstairs with a gun. He’s uneasy, too. 

The thing crackles to life with a low hum. Clarke tilts her head at the device and nods at Raven to begin.

She gives a brief, barely audible description of walking out into the snow and then stops; she really has no idea what happened. Her head hurts. She hardly notices when Clarke takes the transceiver from her and begins to explain in an oddly uninflected voice what the symbols look like, how they appear, how old they are from the look of the scarring— 

“That’s what was on the Ice Nation Assassin’s body.” Sinclair interrupts.

“I know the symbols,” Marcus offers, “We don’t know why they’ve been carved into Raven’s skin. He looks over and amends, “Not carved. Risen. Called forth. Like they were already there.”

Raven looks hilariously taken aback, and Clarke stops talking.

“You know what it says?” Clarke asks.

“It’s the beginning of the Gayatri Mantra.” Marcus says and recites, “ _We meditate on the glory of that Being who has produced this universe; may He enlighten our minds.”_

“What’s the Gayatri Mantra?” Octavia asks.

“That’s from that old show we used to watch—” Bellamy calls up from below, “Remember, O? When we were kids, _Battlestar Galac_ —“

“Why is it on me?”

“That depends on what you remember between the time Clarke left your side and the time you came back in,” Sinclair said.

“Then we’re shit out of luck.” Raven, grumpy again, looks up at Clarke. She doesn’t remember anything. 

She feels Murphy roll his eyes at her from the future. “You’ve been there for almost a year in the past, Raven. Talking to me _in the Future_. And I still don’t think any of us are mentally ill. Yet. So why should we start thinking that now? Something happened, probably very similar to what happened at Mount Weather.”

“It was nothing like that, genius, and yeah obviously similar to Mount Weather. There’s no one here trying to kill us that I know of. I went outside because my leg almost blew off. Again.” she says. “It was a routine freak out.”

“Well, none of us have disappeared suddenly or ceased to exist here, so far. You’re doing something right. The timeline still holds. The world will still end. So…” Murphy trails off. 

“Whatever happened outside just now, happened to me at Mount Weather. That makes perfect sense. And now I’m marked up like the Ice Nation Assassin. This is totally fun.” Raven continues eating one of the cookies she’s stolen from Bellamy’s stash. “Don’t be a moron. Give me a different explanation.”

Only Clarke notices Marcus’ face turn ashen. When Clarke reaches out for his hand he shakes his head and pulls away.

“No one knows about your existence there or your research, correct?” Murphy lowers his voice unnecessarily. “You haven’t made any contact with Becca Pramheda, except to leave the notebook with her. And no one followed you back to the 21st century—that we know of—no one followed any of you. It’s been relatively quiet, right?”

“Yes. Except Clarke can’t make pancakes worth shit, but yes it’s been quiet.”

Raven signs out in the middle of Murphy’s protest and goes back downstairs.

* * *

“Marcus,” Clarke asks. “What’s wrong?”

Marcus looks out through the windows, just _gone._ Roan has the same expression on his face. Clarke has never seen anything like it. Neither Marcus or Roan get like this. This is anguish.

Even when they’d come through, Roan and Marcus had been the ones to stop Clarke from completely losing it. Roan waited patiently until Clarke had almost broken her foot kicking a tree in disbelief at the utterly fucked turn of events.

Both men’s preternatural calm had been mortifying and infuriating.

Both were unshakable, normally. Now, horrifyingly, they look pale and terrified. 

Roan starts to speak and has to try again several times. He pulls his big, warm sweater tight around himself and he looks very young, and Marcus looks very spooked. Clarke manages to get hold of one of his hands, but Marcus doesn’t relax. 

“We need to go downstairs and talk to Raven, talk to Bellamy. We’re in grave danger.” 

“Marc—“

“Is it _not_ obvious?” Roan snaps. “ _Emo laik hir_.”

* * *

They find Bellamy and Raven rummaging around the kitchen finishing the abandoned sandwiches Clarke half-started. She really is the worst.

“Who wants ham and who wants turkey? I have avocado, some good cheddar, oooh jalapeños, uhm… mayo, tomatoes—“

Roan clears his throat. “I’d like ham, please.”

Raven is almost done with the preparation, her mood lifts considerably, and Bellamy and Octavia busy themselves with making Clarke and Roan and Marcus something too. Roan leans over the counter and holds Raven’s forearm still. Raven stares down at the Grounder’s hand, her jaw clenched, and then she raises her head to look into Roan’s eyes.

“You should have told us this when we came, Raven. You need to tell us everything that happened to you, Sinclair, and Gina at Mount Weather. That was the first part in all of this, the catalyst.” Roan takes the knife out of Raven’s hand, silently daring any of them to stop him or question him.

When no one does he comes around to where Raven stands and carefully lifts her shirt again, tracing the glyphs on her back.

“Here’s the other part of the message, the third. The first was the Mountain, the second was Lexa’s instructions and now this is the third,” Roan whispers, drained, and he closes his eyes. “And now I’ll listen to anything you have to say, Raven. Because there is someone out there trying to reach us, trying to help us. A message was sent, but not to any of us, not to me. Only to you, Raven, and only you were to understand it. This is old. Older than anything you can imagine. We should have known they would come. I should have known.”

“Who are they?” Clarke asks, “Roan?”

“It’s a message,” says Roan. “Now I know what it is. And now I think you’d better listen to what I have to say.”

* * *

His words, though spoken softly, have the effect of bringing the howling gale into the house—a sudden, cold wind inside the mind. It nearly freezes their hearts.

Bellamy and Raven do the only thing they can think of doing. They sit and eat their sandwiches, and gesture for Clarke and everyone to join them. Even Roan takes a few bites of his own before setting it down and reaching for the wine he prefers. Octavia hops up on the counter and takes a swig of whiskey and then a bite of her sandwich. And then Roan begins to speak.

* * *

Roan talks well into the night. he talks until daybreak. There is no room warm enough for any of them after he stops, no early light streaking through a window to brighten anyone’s mood, no sun comes through filtered by clouds outside. The storm still howls around them and cuts them off from everything.

Roan begins this with a quiet declaration: They’re known as  _Maiar_ , nearly-primordial spirits, created by the One.

Roan tells it all, leaving out nothing. He remembers and he explains it as best he can—culled together from old teachings, wives’ tales, things Grounders told each other to scare themselves awake on long hunts, small passages hidden in the texts of books, stories that had more weight than even _Natblida,_ Becca Pramheda, and the mythos of the Flame _,_ more important than the first destruction of their world, because there were many worlds and how important could this one be? He lists everything—names, incidents, and cities ... assassinations.

All in the past, all throughout history as he understands it. Marcus nods along and corroborates details and fills in blanks.

“Everything fits. It’s the truth. It’s why we were sent back.”

“Immortal assassins. Sure.” Clarke is the first one to speak. Her tone is reasonable. At this point, nothing is out of the realm of possibility.

“No,” Roan says. “Not assassins. Guardians… who kill. Sometimes. If necessary.”

“But Nia sent—“ Raven tries.

Roan shakes his head, “My mother was shrewd, she was vicious, but details and nuance escaped her. What or who she thought she sent to destroy _Maun-de_ was something else altogether, certainly not an ordinary killer. _You_ were incidental to Nia but extremely important to whatever you encountered that night.” 

“I just happened to be there,“ Raven confirms, “In the way.”

“Yes. If the assassin had been Ice Nation, and _Azgeda_ had known it, then you would be dead. But no, you were not a lesser detail to the Being who came for you. You were its target, and it made sure you lived. There’s no way anyone would have survived that explosion otherwise.”

“You know _Maiar_ is a borrowed name, right?” Clarke tries not to smile, “It’s from an old, old book. About Elves and Men of the West and Rings and… Lords and Wraiths and whatever.”

Roan puts his hand on Clarke’s cheek briefly. “We borrowed a lot of things from before the Cataclysm, like that particular tale borrowed from myth and legend and language. _Maiar_ , as a name, sufficed for our time after the Fall. When we didn’t deserve to create anything new, we borrowed from what had been. And anyway, no one thought to change it. I was one of the few who could read in more than one tongue. I know where it’s from.”

Roan smiles for the first time, remembering. “It was either that or the Justice League.” 

“They’re not immortal, nerd,” Bellamy said.

“Nerd?” Roan looks adorably confused, and Lincoln smiles.

“Why were we sent back, Roan?” Raven asks. “Why us? Why me?”

Everyone is tired. It is a fair question.

Roan actually shrugs. “We’re here to avoid an apocalypse. It’s in Lexa’s notes. Novikov's Self-Consistency Principle—there is only one timeline, and people who go into the past to change the past have already changed the past and so it is destined to happen all along. If they’ve sent us back to do it, it can be done. And if _TaimKru_ are here, if they really are the reason _we_ are here, in this past, to attempt the unimaginable, then all the factions are here too.”

“Factions?” Octavia groans.

“Of course. For every point of light, there is an equal darkness. For every Order of the Overworld, there is an opposing fraternity of the Underworld. Our friend here,” Roan tilts his head at Raven, “has been marked. Do not ever doubt that _Lexa kom Trikru_ was marked as well. In the same way.”

“She had no—her body was her own,” Clarke whispers.

“So is mine, Clarke.” Raven stares at her.

Clarke clears her throat, “Well, that’s our best guess given what we know from Lexa’s journal and this whole bizarre set-up.” She gestures vaguely at everything, “We’ve been given everything we need, and we’re making it up as we go along. We think we’re trying to save the world. We have a cute little nascent artificial intelligence that cares a whole lot about people in a way that A.L.I.E  didn’t. What else is there? What are we missing?”

“And why are the Maiar—or whoever _oh my god_ can we call them anything but that—here and branding me and then dumping me in snowdrifts? I mean—“ Raven mutters.

“I wish I knew.” Roan straightens his shoulders, stretching. “But now, it’s a certainty that we have company. We just don’t know who will show up first. And we still don’t know anything about Lexa and Abby.”

“Either way,” Bellamy sighs, “Sucks.”


	16. Chapter 16

Just before dawn, Clarke wakes up and snuggles in closer to Raven. Everyone else is asleep. Outside the attic window, she can see skeletal trees, with gold and rust and bright reds even in the dark, and she can see the Gate.

She heads downstairs wrapped in a throw and boils water, and then trudges back upstairs to share a tumbler of coffee between them. The wind picks up and Raven tugs at the blanket around her neck, while reaching blindly for Clarke to come settle in closer. 

“Clarke, wait.” She mumbles into Clarke’s neck, “Don’t get— snuggles“

Clarke takes a deep breath, before shucking her sweater and snugging down against her pillows, “You know exactly why I’m up, Raven.”

Raven blindly takes a deep slug of caffeine (which, yes) and gives Clarke a mental high-five for spiking it with bourbon. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, and offers the drink to Clarke, eyes still closed, and much less potentially grumpy.

“Yeah, babe. I know,” she says, gently, “shit. I know.”

“Raven,” Clarke says and looks straight ahead for a moment. “I don’t—why?”

Raven opens her eyes and feels her mouth fall open slightly, and Clarke cranes her head back and mutters, “God. We didn’t change anything.”

Raven’s slowly coming to consciousness, and her considerable mind is sputtering awake. She makes sure her voice is calm, and even. “We couldn’t have. We both knew that somewhere, no matter what. In order for us to even be here, our timeline would have to stay the way it turned out, everything would have to be the same to the exact detail. Otherwise, who knows if there would have even been an ‘us’ to travel back. Lexa and Abby—“ Raven chokes on the names, ”they had to die.”

Clarke just continues to stare blindly out the window, almost broken but not quite, “What about the parallel universes you were—“ 

Raven shakes her head, “if there’s a veil somewhere, a rip in space/time, _something_ , they would have found us. Lexa is the strongest human and AI hybrid we know of in existence. She would have come for us.” 

Clarke refuses to back down, “Then why this house? And what about her journal?”

Raven pulls her pillow over her ears and rolls over, and reminds herself that anyone else would refuse to have a conversation this early in the morning, in any universe, with anyone they weren’t fucking.

It isn’t enough to drown out the sharper, “Raven” that chases the rest of Clarke’s quiet swearing, or the bitter undertone of her, “Why are you not freaking out? Why is everyone so fucking calm?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Raven answers, “I don’t.” 

And then something occurs to her, but she still keeps the pillow between her and Clarke, “Clarke, have you heard the voices?” 

“You mean the Commanders? Not in a few days. Have you?” Clarke says.

“No. They’ve gone quiet. And they’re fuck-all in terms of help. Maybe they’re too far away in Time or whatever. So. I probably wouldn’t experience them the same as you. I didn’t actually take the Flame key. You did.”

“Look at me, Raven. I can’t talk to a pillow. Did you ever hear Lexa or mom with the Commanders?”

“No,” Raven says, offering a tight smile. “I would have told you.” And then much softer, “It’s all I want.”

“So they’re really dead.”

Raven deflates again after a second, slightly alarmed that Clarke’s tone is flat, nonchalant. “Yes. Give me back the coffee. And come here. This is our last morning alive.”

That stops their conversation cold, because what is there to say after that? Clarke opens up her arms and Raven shifts to place her head under Clarke’s chin, nuzzling against flawless, soft skin. Clarke strokes Raven’s arm absently, and then brings both their hands to her chest, covering Raven’s with her own, so Raven can feel the beating of her heart. It’s strong and steady. It’s life, and Raven sighs against it.

"I just... wanted to have her," Clarke finally says, in a rough and exhausted voice. “She was mine.”

Raven waits. 

“She woke up as the sun was setting, she was bathed in sunlight. She was smiling.” 

Clarke’s saying goodbye, and Raven closes her eyes against the growing last day on Earth and lets the full realization settle deep within her. This is goodbye, and both of them are doing the best they can. 

“She was born for you.”

Clarke hums a response; her whole body relaxes against Raven. The drowsy heaviness and warmth of their shared need is narcotic.

“Raven?” 

“Yeah?”

“Were you ever going to tell me about mom?”

Raven bursts out laughing. She rolls over on top of Clarke and puts her nose right up against hers so they both have to uncross their eyes to see each other.

"I was going to let Abby handle that one."

Clarke almost smiles, in response to that, but can't quite make it because she’s so clearly inconsolable. This is her friend. And for a space of a few days, maybe less, both of them were truly happy.

Clarke starts to tremble a moment later, and Raven kisses tears away from Clarke’s eyes. She gathers Clarke up in her arms and starts to rock them both, singing low against Clarke’s ear, soothing her and letting her fall apart for good and always.

Clarke closes her eyes and rubs at her face, and then says, "If it means the chance of seeing her, I’m ready to die.”

"I know," Raven murmurs. She’s never felt like this, not even when they first realized they’d been torn apart forever from everything they knew, and the two people they love; she’s never felt so desperate, but there isn't anything they can do. "I never told her I loved her." 

Clarke moans softly, and neither of them is able to speak for a long time.

* * *

Murphy arrives on the same glorious morning.

Raven and Clarke watch the sun rise, and then see a wan figure crossing the great expanse of lawn. The man pauses to look up at the Gate—dwarfed in its shadow. 

It’s one of those crystalline early dawns, with sharp sprays of color, and the intensely bright edges of late fall days. They watch him approach the house before getting out of bed and opening the door for him. He glares at them until Bellamy offers him a beer. No one says anything about it being 6 in the morning and batshit impossible. Murphy looks like he’s been sleeping rough for months.

“38.9784° N, 76.4922° W,.” He says, by way of a hello.

Clark taps all the anger-management tricks she’d read about in the small library of self-help books they found in the town bookstore. Number One: Don’t take it personally. Number Two: Being calm, relaxed, and in control is normal for me. Number Three: Thinking positively in tough situations is just something I do naturally.

“Oh hey, Murphy.” Raven drawls. “How are you?”

“Good, Reyes. Thanks”

“Can I get you something to eat?”

“Please.”

“How did you get here?” Clarke is careful to ask on an out-breath, and only after a slow count of five.

“I’ve been here.”

“Who are we talking to on the Ansible?” Marcus asks. “Please tell me that’s—“

“Wrong John Murph,” Murphy says quietly, sweetly apologetic.

Clarke waves him through the door, “I think you’d better come in.”

* * *

He looks different. Maybe the set of his eyes, maybe the laugh lines, maybe the sense of pervasive calm and good humor.

“My name is John Murphy.” He says, after a shower, polishing off three sandwiches in less than ten minutes, and then settling back into the couch with another beer. He keeps talking while he towels off his hair. “I was born in the year 2132 AD.”

“Uhm, John. Yeah, we know. Why are you being a weirdo?” Monty asks. 

“Why are you using Anno Domini?” Sinclair asks. 

“No one uses that. It was stipulated in the Exodus Charters.” Kane mutters.

“I can use Common Era if you like. All dates are backtracked from the confirmed date of the nuclear apocalypse, right?” John waits for someone to agree. When Bellamy gives him a quick nod he continues, “The End of the World was 2052. You used that year as Ark Year 1—the first year people lived on the Ark.” 

“Yes, Murphy. We know.”

“I left you the journal, I left you the house. I’m glad you found it. You did what you were supposed to do.” 

They stare at him. The “holy shit” doesn’t even really escape Bellamy’s lips until John swings his gaze towards him in mild challenge, and then he looks back at Clarke, who is blinking rapidly, and his eyes soften. It takes a full minute for Raven to get herself under control. The others are frozen, stunned silent.

“It was you,” Marcus says. 

“Yes, my name is John Murphy. I was born in the year 2132 AD. And we have never met like this, except in stories.”

It’s very quiet, until Octavia sighs and mumbles, “You’re still a goddamn asshole, Murphy.”

He smiles beatifically at her, “I am that.” 

“We didn’t change anything,” Raven puts her hair in a loose ponytail for the first time in God knows how long. Maybe getting John back calls for a special shout-out to the good old days.

“Yes, you did.” John winks. “Hey Spacewalker, we're made of atoms, right. Our atoms vibrate, like frequencies—like different radio waves in the same room and we just have to tune into one. But over time all those coexistences no longer vibrate with these other universes or, okay, frequencies. We're decoupled from them, We're no longer vibrating in unison with these other frequencies or timelines. There really are parallel universes surrounding us, the problem is, we can’t enter them because we've decohered from them over time with decisions, choices, okay? We’re no longer vibrating in unison with them. Sorry about that. You started an alternate time-line. And I’ve come to get you out.”

* * *

“I will not call them, myself, whomever: _Maiar._ I refuse.” Raven says. 

“Really?” Clarke sings-songs, “You don’t want to be associated with Angelic spirits created by _Eru Ilúvatar_ at the Beginning? It’s pretty cool. You assume mortal forms to help or hinder the—“ 

“Uhm. No.”

“You have to admit it’s kind of—“

“Clarke.”

“But—“

“Clarke.” 

They’re in a clearing; a small area of level, grassy ground a couple of klicks away from the house, over the first ridge. Clarke sees bright birds flying fast out of the trees nearby and Raven points to the sunset. Just a glimpse of an extraordinary colored and brilliantly pastel sky reaches them through the canopy above them.

They jog blindly along behind the others and come around the bend of the path into a dark blue smoldering patch of forest, thick with undergrowth and bright green tree trunks.

The landscape is the same, although the vegetation has slowly been morphing into the kind of eerie phosphorescence they’re all familiar with. There are worlds overlapping somewhere, at least. They’re closer to the veils than before. The gates are beginning to converge.

The Gate that opened in the snowstorm still stands—a matte-black, smooth cipher near 100 yards tall; a perfect circle eclipsing the horizon, blinking in and out depending on where they stand looking at it.

“That alien, bastard thing nearly took Raven’s head off, why is there another one?” Roan nearly shouts.

Bellamy checks the maps and nods at Octavia. They should be near where the Polis Tower will stand in a century.

Seeing them hesitate, Murphy repeats the coordinates. “38.9784° N, 76.4922° W”

Clarke hefts Lexa’s, or _whatever_ , Murphy’s journal in her hands. The thing has been adamantly intellectually impenetrable, and as far as Clarke’s concerned, useless. They still haven’t managed to time jump back to their reality, so it’s been an epic fail. Raven and Monty have poured over it for weeks.

“Fuck, this is hard.” Clarke murmurs to Raven. Raven squeezes her hand in sympathy. This is their countless attempt to do something, anything to get out of the small area in space/time that’s become their home.

Raven looks around and down and sees her black armor—the same stuff that materialized when they were in the City of Light—flicker into reality. It’s very real. She feels it slide over her body like a second skin. As soon as it does, the green mass of foliage above them begins to ripple and dematerialize, like reflections on water.

“Okay, well obviously, two realities can’t exist in the same place,” Clarke says breathlessly. “I mean, at least that’s clear to everyone, right?”

A sudden shock wave Raven feels through her suit blasts them all. They hit the ground and stay there. Another explosion comes through the hissing air as Clarke covers her ears.

“That’s the Gate. There’s another fucking Gate.” Roan repeats himself, and this time he is shouting. 

“You sure?” Monty asks.

Roan snorts.

“I can see it,” Sinclair says, lowering his night goggles “It _is_ the Gate. Or uhm… a Gate.”

“Well, I’m not lying to you.” Murphy rolls his eyes, “And you are absolutely wrong. Two realities can and do exist in the same place. There are different rules to each, but they exist simultaneously.”

“So you’ve said.” Sinclair looks unimpressed.

John shrugs at him, “The one and only narrative of your life is an illusion, Sinclair. I'm sorry I’m upsetting your notion of individuality, but the universe I come from accepts multiverses. We revel in it. We play in it. You’re all a myth I was told as a kid. You’re a cautionary tale. You’re what not to do when the world ends.”

“Do you know someone named Emori, Murphy?” Roan asks.

“Of course,” Murphy smiles. “There are countless versions of her. And me. And you. I’m on a rescue mission, you useless, ungrateful children. I’m your best friend right now. There are a million ways to live and die out there.”

“I hate you in every universe, bro,” Bellamy says. 

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“All decisions are realized, some are realized more often than others.” Murphy snickers, not unkindly. 

“That’s pretty cool, Murphy,” Jasper says, strolling up and standing just a little too close to John. “So what do you do in your ‘verse?”

“I work very closely with some people you might know.” 

“I want to punch him.” Octavia asks Lincoln, “Can I punch him?” 

“No, _ai hodnes_.”

Clarke and Raven get up and start running again.

* * *

There’s numinous light ahead of them, just visible through the spread of thick trunks and leaves. Raven hears gunfire. She makes a sharp gesture at Octavia, who’s unsheathed her swords until Lincoln again steps in and carefully lowers Octavia’s weapon with a quiet word. It’s still amazing to Raven that Lincoln has such an effect on Little Blake. 

They come out into the open. It’s the meadow where they first arrived, and they throw themselves down so they can just see over the top of wild grasses. The second Gate towers over them, the wind howling through it, forlorn and desolate. It’s silhouetted against the dusk, all covered in vines and creepers and moss. It looks older by centuries than the one that exists next to the house.

“Well, why the fuck is  _that_ here?” Jasper asks. Monty shushes him. 

More or less as one, they shoot up and across the wide expanse of land, through light cane-like stalks and flowers. Raven wades through as best she can without collapsing underneath her growing hope. Plasma bolts sing out from the darkness of the structure, and lightning—tesla-like branches of electricity—crackle out from the void, flashing across the dim stretch of ground between them and the enormous twin monoliths.

“This is it, guys,” Raven says in a cool, unhurried voice she doesn’t recognize. Apparently, neither does Clarke because the look she gives her is hilarious.

“Do we have a plan now?” Clarke deadpans, “Would you like to share with the class?”

“'I'm going through it. I'm going to walk through and see what's on the other side.”

“That’s not a plan.”

Raven turns on her, “Do you have a better one?”

“Look,” Marcus yells suddenly.

There’s gunfire from ahead, though Raven doesn’t see flashes of light coming from either Gate. She’s too close to the thing, and the darkness is too absolute. It’s like hearing a battle from a very long way off, in a dream.

“Okay!” Clarke throws her weapon’s safety off. “It’s just another Gate, holy shit.” She glances at Raven, “We’re going through,” she gestures wildly at the unmistakable rift growing in the fabric of reality, and the fires slagging the sky above them. “Does anybody want to stay here? Because I don’t.”

“God—the explosions, the missiles…. that’s not coming from the Gate.” Marcus points upwards, “Those are—“

“It’s started.”

Marcus, not typically a drinker, wishes with everything he is that he was. He wants a sedative and he wants to fall into a deep sleep. But he’s awake, he’s here, he’s watching the world end. And just 24 hours before, he woke before sunrise. He was nervous and shivering, and now he knows why.

Marcus Kane got out of bed, just like the rest of them did, and did exactly what Murphy told them to do, without question. Because there was no more time and no more space in which to ask them. They were entering a vacuum. They were running, and they had minutes left.

The time is approximately 8:14. They are under the great arch of the Gate, protected in a liminal state of neither here nor there. The whole valley explodes with a garish light, which resembles the magnesium light used in photography, and they are conscious of a wave of heat. It’s a remarkable phenomenon, nothing more than brilliant yellow light and silence. A moderately loud explosion they can’t hear comes from a distance and, at the same time, the forests surrounding them are flattened with a loud subsonic crash. They can feel it in their bodies. They can see it.    

Marcus looks at Clarke, Murphy, and Raven as if they’re the last hope they have. They probably are, whether they believe Murphy’s nonsense or not. Clarke rolls her eyes and almost throws her gun at him.

“Seriously,” she mutters, “Come on, or we’ll die.” And then, “Right. Do you want to do this or do you want to discuss some more unintelligible science bullshit? Because _science_ isn’t going to matter ever, anymore.”

* * *

The earth beneath them shudders. Raven rolls over and sees flames lick the treetops above, a holocaust roaring through the rift of the Gate. A flickering, deadly patch of ice-blue radiation and fire lies directly behind them. Their world is obliterated. 

“Raven?” a voice calls. Clarke's.

“Okay,' she whispers. She stumbles up from the crouch she’s been frozen in. “Clarke, yes. I’m here. So are the others.” And then she throws up violently. She hears her friends around her having similar reactions.

The air begins to circulate again, there’s a breeze where the heat had been stifling. The air had been soupy and heavy the closer they got to the Monolith.

She figures that traveling via any kind of Gate (like she thinks that thing is) they’d be dealing strictly with anti-gravity units of measurements, giving them an extra dimension to work with. She has no idea how they’ve reconstituted whole, without collapsing or exploding. She just has no idea about anything. Einstein-Rosen bridges come to mind because the Gate is _not_ a singularity—they wouldn’t have survived—and for the first time in a very long while she wants Wick to help her. It’s Sinclair who gives her back a little bit of sanity.

“Two doors connected by a corridor, with each door leading to a different room. Now, imagine the corridor is a conduit through space-time, and the rooms are completely distinct where’s and when’s.” Sinclair sits up next to her rubbing at his eyes.

“What happened to the Gate?” Bellamy asks, and then he looks around. “We’re in the place we started from; the grass makes it—“ 

Sinclair’s comm-link crackles. “- ere? Is that you?”

“—tact. We have you.” Voices clash through ether already ripping with static electricity. Raven starts wading through the grass and thumps Sinclair on the shoulder.

“—asshole!' The speaker buzzes and then goes silent.

Sinclair stops cold and swears softly. He bends over the small radio and fumbles with the communicator controls, “Was that Jackson? Has anyone ever heard Jackson bitch like that? Who does he think he’s talking to?”

“He’s talking to me,” Murphy laughs, “like, _I’m_ the shmuck.”

' – ough outside!' a voice yells suddenly. 'What - . . . – cking just did it!” Now the voice is Emori, and Emori sounds _pissed._ Pleased, but pissed.

“I’m coming, baby.” John Murphy throws his hands up in triumph, “I’m coming right to you. We’re right where we should be. ETA in 2 hours.”

“Oh, thank _Christ_ ,” Bellamy says, “I would so rather talk to Emori than you.”

“I have a headache.” Lincoln murmurs.

John shields his eyes against the sun. “You have your life.” He’s practically crying with joy. “Now shut up and walk.” 

* * *

They arrive at the base of the tower exactly when Murphy said they would; it slants out of the lush landscape like a beacon. Miles away, Raven can just make out the tall, gleaming spires of a city. She says nothing, she’s too exhausted, but she grasps Clarke’s shoulder and points. Clarke blinks slowly and turns a full circle to take in where they are, and where they’ve been.

“This was Polis. That’s the Tower.” She says, wondering and grateful.

“See? You’re getting the hang of it already,” John claps his hands in delight.

Further ahead, Lincoln and Marcus are clambering up to the building, to the wide-open courtyard—flagstones gleaming in the afternoon sun—that Clarke knows like the back of her hand. She pauses to look up. There’s no flame burning red or white, almost at the top, about 9 meters above where the Commander’s throne room once stood.

Raven sees several figures waving down at them and then disappearing back into the shadows of the Tower. To Raven's right the wall turns a corner beneath the imposing structure—that’s where the main market stood; to her left, the wall-walk disappears into the earth. It’s like the centuries have finally had their way, and Nature has taken back what was always it’s own.

“That’s where Lexa fought Roan,” Clarke tells her. She can see Roan staring at the same place, dumbfounded.

“Come on,” Murphy herds them towards the blank, smoothed stone. “Please, don’t fight me. You all need to rest and eat.”

Roan is kneeling, sword ready; carrying a piece of the splintered remains of the alien portal they went through to get here. Up until now, the Gate—something out of a nightmare—has blocked the pathway to _this_ world.

Clarke is beside him in seconds, and holds his hand, “You okay?”

“No.”

“Okay. Me neither.” Clarke says, “But we’re finishing this. Together.”

He stays silent for a long stretch of moments, and then, “Clarke, do you think—?”

“I don’t know.” She whispers. “Roan, please. I need you.”

He gets up, still holding her hand. He turns to her and brings her palm up to his mouth and kisses the inside of her wrist softly, “I’m here.”

* * *

The elevators work. They work extremely well.

Raven looks around wildly, almost breaking her neck in barely contained, hysterical confusion. If the edifice of the Tower weren’t so familiar, the inside of the building wouldn’t be recognizable at all. Everything gleams. Everything is new. Technology and architecture centuries ahead of anything she has ever experienced in her lifetime.

The walls of the elevators are equations and virtual reflections. They can see miles away through the walls. Walls that should be solid are variables. There are long stretches of smooth glass and matte black planes and clean lines of sight. Nothing here is or has ever been, destroyed. Nothing has been touched by centuries of radiation like their old Earth.

The doors of the thing open on Emori in mid-sentence glowering at her wrist and practically yelling something sardonically into the small comm-link. Not much has changed there.

“Yeah, okay, stop talking. Tell him my communicator's out, OK? I could hardly hear John on this thing.”

“I’m right here!”

Emori yelps and throws herself at Murphy. They fall to the floor crying and laughing. “You did it! We did it! Oh, my god! Baby! We did it! You’re safe, baby, okay? You’re home.”

* * *

Emori and John start fussing at them immediately, shuffling them through the doorways just across from the elevators, and stripping them of their jackets and coats.

Their weapons get thrown in a pile, and everyone gets a hot towel and a drink. They’re pushed into plush, luxurious chairs and worried over. Food is brought in, and passed around in a mess of activity and yelling and crying. Just looking at John and Emori makes Raven tear up, and after that, it’s a domino effect. It’s a shitshow. Everyone is beside themselves.

After a bit, Raven wipes at her eyes and stretches out her legs. Bellamy pats her on the shin and he smiles at her. His old smile, cocky and broad. Welcoming. 

“What’s up, Reyes. You okay?” He asks.

“I’m coming back in… and it’s the saddest moment of my life.” She whispers hoarsely.

Clarke leans over and strokes her hand through her hair. She pushes into Clarke’s enormous strength. Raven needs her fire, and her careless grace because Raven feels like she’s going to collapse. When Clarke’s eyes meet hers they flash blue—the blue of Earth and Skies she knows—and Raven comes back to her.

Emori puts her plate aside and sits up straight, “It’s alright, Raven. This is… difficult. You don’t really have to understand it, either, if you don’t want. Right now, just know that you’re alive.”

“What else do I need to know?” Raven asks in a small, defeated voice. 

Emori cocks her head and glances at John. Clarke watches them both. 

“Are they here?” 

Murphy shrugs and the blood drains from his face. Clarke looks like he’s slapped her and she takes her hand away from Raven. Raven feels immediately bereft and hopeless. 

Murphy,” she says, “please. This is important.”

“I can’t say.” He looks ashamed, and like he wants to be anywhere else. “Clarke, I am so sorry.”

He looks her straight in the eye, with more recognition and knowledge of who she is than he’s let on. Clarke has the very uneasy feeling she’s talking to their John, _her_ John. The snotty kid whose ass she kicked in 2 nd grade when he stole her Animal Crackers.

“That’s the only thing I can’t tell you.” He takes a deep breath and stares out the window, “Not because I don’t want to.”

He swallows hard. After a while, Emori takes his hand, “John.” She urges him to say something, anything.

He almost can’t do it. He tries once and fumbles the words. Emori kisses his hand. “Clarke. I am so sorry. Both of you. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you because I honestly don’t know.”

Marcus gets up and paces to the window. The others stay stone quiet watching Raven and Clark and their reactions—taking their emotional pulse—ready to intervene if necessary. Roan’s sword hand flexes once, pointer finger to pinky, the knuckles whitening with the strain. An unconscious habit.

“John,” Raven leans forward, her eyes caressing his face hungrily for information, she feels oddly triumphant. She’ll take anything right now. “Don’t lie to us anymore. It’s you, isn’t it?”

At that, John seems to grow a pair, and becomes who they remember, “Yes, fuck you, yes. I am. I’m _that_ Murphy, okay? We all _died_ at that fucking moment, you know? Except we didn’t because,” And he jabs a finger at Raven, who blinks stupidly at him and his sudden whirlwind of aggression (she _might_ have missed it, a little), “ _you_ came out of nowhere and… I don’t even fucking know, okay? _You_ did something. _You’re_ the one. So maybe... get over yourself?”

Raven blushes for no reason except adrenaline, and then she sighs and nods. “You’re right. Sorry? But it _is_ you. You’re still a mouthy little motherfucker.”

“ _Thanks._ Of course, it’s me, you psychopath. Who else would give a shit about you?”

A huge crack of thunder, amplified by the acoustics in the room, rolls across the sky and everyone nearly jumps out of their skin. The clouds through the high windows billow across the setting sun, casting the grass plains surrounding them into shadow and darkness. A jagged bolt of lightning nearly cracks the world in half.

Clarke runs her hands over her face and sighs, “Can you also control the weather in this universe? Because that’s not dramatic at all.”

A laugh, a warm, gentle, low laugh comes from behind them, “No, I’m afraid not, Clarke. We can make small adjustments here and there. But weather is as it’s always been. A little wilder and powerful in this time, but otherwise out of our purview.”

Clarke rises immediately, and Marcus startles forward from his place by the window. “A.L.I.E.?”

“Ah, no.” The woman’s features darken in ill-concealed distaste, “No.”

The woman is beautiful, as beautiful as A.L.I.E always was, always would be. But this woman has deep, infinitely open eyes. These eyes are truly curious, very much compassionate and sad.

Her eyes hold no sadness beyond a human sadness. Her eyes have seen everything. They might have seen into the souls of everyone arrayed around the room. They might have destroyed the world and continued into the next one.

She approaches Clarke, her hands clasped before her, in quiet supplication. “I’m Becca, Clarke. Rebecca Pramheda. I am the first and last of my name. Welcome. We have been waiting for you.”

Becca turns and takes Raven’s hand. “And you. Oh god. Thank you, Raven. It was you that gave me what was needed.”

Raven blinks, “That was Monty, actually.”

“For real,” Monty says.

Becca smiles at her, and Raven wants to smile back but she can barely manage to breathe.

* * *

Raven gasps and splutters, striking out in the dark and hitting her hands off hard, sharp, broken surfaces. She hears water sluicing through deep, subterranean tunnels, and her own choked breath froths through her sinuses. She coughs violently and flails out. She hears a muffled curse.

She’s floating in a violent ocean. Most of her body aches, each vertebrae and muscle in her hip screaming with pain. The bed underneath her collapses and she falls through space, and jolts inelegantly awake, gasping.

She is, finally, in the plain darkness of her room, and crawling desperately out of her dream, and Clarke is holding her down murmuring soft endearments in her ear. She’s holding Raven loosely in the circle of her arms until she can feel where her body starts and the nightmare ends. 

Roan is awake in a chair in the corner of the room, watching over them. He’s gotten half way up until he sees that Clarke has everything under control, and he sits back down and sheathes his sword.

In the dream, already fading, she’d found Lexa’s body, crushed between sky and ground, trapped and still, half a meter under the surface of a huge body of water. The Commander’s head, which Raven could still feel in her hands, felt like the innards of a main motherboard, maybe a server—something she could reach into and rip apart like a spider’s web. The Commander’s neck moved too easily and stayed at grotesque angles, and her forehead had been crushed. 

Raven matches the pulse of her blood to Clarke's steady heart. It’s the only way she can handle the inconsolable pain and grief. She does this for about a minute until the dream gradually fades completely, and she’s left only with a fierce dread.

“You called out her name,” Clarke says, her lips against the side of Raven’s face, “Was she alive?”

“No.” There’s no use lying. Not now. 

“Do you believe Becca?” Roan asks softly, rightly intuiting a change of subject is needed.

Clarke raises her head, the care in his voice enough to make her ache; “You mean what she told us tonight? Yes. There’s no other explanation.” 

“ _We are particles, governed on the deepest level by creation. Every time a quantum transition, a decision, is made, or a path is taken, or maybe some event rather than another takes place, our bodies, and consciousness split. Other universes are born. Each possible result is experienced. What else is God, except infinite possibility? Our souls are attracted to life. Where our consciousness is, there is also Life, and we can even survive the end of the world.”_

Clarke recites what Becca Pramheda had said, before the last embers of the fire in the enormous stone hearth—the only odd anachronistic touch to the whole Tower still left—faded, and they’d been sent off to bed with promises of more discussion in the morning.

“I think that was her way of saying Lexa and your mother _might_ be alive. A more polite _I don’t know_ than we’ve heard before now. At least she’s elegant about it.” Roan grunts, “I believe her too. What did—?“

A soft knock sounds and Roan is next to the door before either Raven or Clarke can react. Roan places a finger over his lips and nods once, curtly.

“Come in,” Clarke sits up.

It’s Becca, and a woman half in shadows behind her, backlit so her features are masked. A third woman stands just out of sight, beyond the door. Waiting.

“King Roan, leave us.” Becca half bows to him, and he steps out of his hiding place.

“Please, King. This is not for you. Not yet.” She laughs—a quiet, pleased sound. Content with him in some obscure way she only knows, and he finally grins at her and turns to Raven and Clarke.

“I’ll be outside.”

The woman in the corridor steps back further into the shadows and then slips around Roan—like a cat—as he exits.

Uncharacteristically, he barely glances at her, at any of them, and Raven thinks stupidly of witchcraft. The third woman has a cloak on, and a hood over head. Water drips off of her, onto her boots and the floor. She must have just arrived through the still raging storm.

The door shuts with a soft click, Becca steps out of the way, and Raven almost wants to throw up. She just suppresses a moan and drops her gaze helplessly.

Because what she’s seeing can’t be true.

Raven’s throat closes, and her chest aches, and she can feel the outside winds and chaos settle around her heart and freeze her to the spot. She’s tender with a chill that precedes death and she’s going to die if this isn’t true, because across the room the fire and soul of her entire life steps out of the shadows into the fractured light of the seething weather and the moon. 

Raven raises her head again and glares at the woman who approaches the bed slowly while Becca looks on. The air in the room is cooling with the deepest part of the night, and Raven scents the smoke of woodfires, of clear, open spaces under the stars. She scents home.

It’s Clarke who stumbles out of bed first and goes to her knees crying before she can make it even a few feet towards her mother.

Abby Griffin sinks down in front of her daughter and takes her in her arms. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a new thing built from a lot of ideas that have come and gone over the course of writing this story. You'll find some familiar scenes and situations in a new context—and it's why I have two stories (possibly more to come) set in the same universe, or multiverses. I'm playing with different pairings, timelines and ideas set in variant ways, and because of that the familiar storylines have disparate consequences, DNA strands, forces in play and outcomes in each separate story... 
> 
> We're coming to the end of this particular thread of Polis—this is the penultimate chapter. Thanks for reading. yell @ me in the comments.

Raven catalogs the soft leathers and materials of Abby’s clothes. They aren't from the Ark or from Polis. She focuses on her hair, dark gold, some auburn. She hears her voice as she speaks quietly to Clarke, slightly hoarse with emotion, as warm as ever. Raven straightens.

Faced with seeing Abby, Raven does absolutely nothing but stare. She thinks she should go ask someone for tea, all of them need something. A small part of her mind races to bear this, because it’s too much, and it might kill her. Another part of her thinks that maybe Murphy drugged them all, something in their food. Raven is shattering. She wants to run; her body feels scalded and cold, freezing.

Abby holds Clarke to her for a very long time and Raven wishes desperately she wasn't there—she should have followed Roan into the hall. Until Abby raises her head and gazes straight at Raven with a look that makes Ravens eyes water and her throat burn. 

Abby, if possible, has become more beautiful, fiercer—honed by grief, and joy, and terrors Raven can’t even fathom. If Raven could, she’d calculate how many years they’ve been apart, and how many ways each of their experiences of timestreams has been different.

Abby looks at her with heartbreaking kindness.

Clarke steps out of her mother’s arms after kissing her. She turns to Raven with some pity, and awe—and leaves the room quietly. 

She knows Raven is stupid with grief and astonishment.

Abby reaches out blindly, instinctively, for any kind of lifeline. 

“Where’s your brace?”

“I haven’t needed it in months.” Raven answers.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Abby says.

Raven’s eyes are hot, dark with anguish. “You died. You and Lexa—”

“I’m sorry, Raven,” Abby says, “Forgive me.”

Raven carefully runs a strand of honey-dark hair through her fingers.

“Raven, It’s me,” Abby whispers. “It’s me, baby. I’m alive.”

Raven pulls her hand back into a fist. And then, angry and appalled at her own cowardice she pulls Abby hard against her, and her fingers thrust roughly through Abby’s hair. 

Abby is soft and fresh in her arms, silken over a core of steel—the secret place in her—and that’s what Raven recognizes as hers, and how she knows without a doubt that it really is Abby pressed against her, warm. Alive. Abby traces her face, her hairline, her cheekbones, the outline of her earlobes, and the sharp line of her jaw, her neck.

“I don’t know what to do,” Raven says, eyes roaming desperately all over Abby’s face.

“You don’t have to. It doesn’t matter what we do,” Abby leans her forehead against hers and breathes out, “I’m here.”

* * *

“How are you alive and  _she’s dead_.’’ Clarke is distraught, “How are you here?  _Where is she?_ ”

‘‘Clarke,  _think_.’’ Abby is terribly tired. “Lexa showed you immediately where she was, as soon as she was overrun in Polis.”

She draws a hand over her face, exhausted and then turns to the figure in the hallway, now in the room with them for over an hour or more—as silent and still as a night with heat lightning across the horizon.

“Come forward. Please.”

Becca thrusts a thin sheaf of papers at Murphy with a slight frown. Across the room, Marcus and Roan are uneasy. Bellamy, Lincoln, and Octavia watch all of it, still blinking away sleep.

Abby lets out a long breath, then eases herself down into a chair.

‘‘Jesus Christ,’’ Raven says. She closes her eyes and leans forward, “It’s you.”

‘‘Raven?’’ Clarke grabs her Raven’s hand as the woman materializes in front of them without making a sound, or shifting the air around her at all.

“Someone explain this right now,” Murphy says, touching Emori’s arm.

“I guess you need to show yourself to everyone.” Raven entwines her fingers with Clarke’s. “How long have you been with her, Abby? How long have you known where we were?”

“Just a few hours ago. She came to show me.”

“I’ve explained this to you,” Roan says, “I’ve explained this, and here we are.”

Dawning awareness flickers in the clouded blue of Clarke’s eyes. Her already pale face blanches white. And Raven is watching  _herself_ move, in a deadly lope, all over the room.

‘‘Yes, okay.’’ Raven finally says. ‘‘Show them your arm.’’

Raven stands next to her double, and as one, they roll up their sleeves. ॐ भू: भुवः स्वः

Roan strides over and grabs both of their forearms, “Stop fucking with us. You’re the same person. Just  _say it_.”

Clarke looks, really looks. Her eyes flit back and forth from Raven to the Guardian. She finally settles on her mother, that’s easy enough, who just looks on with an eyebrow raised.

“Abby,” Raven says quietly, “back away. Come over to me.”

Abby doesn’t do that. Instead, she speaks to the Guardian, who looks a hell of a lot like Raven, “You’ve got some details wrong,” she murmurs.

“There are always dissonances—“ the Guardian pauses, not because she’s thinking but because she honest to god  _glitches out,_ the infinitesimal blip in reality is silent, seems eerily similar to a radio wave trying to tune into itself, a recalibration, “Read it again. It’s the mark of my kind. तत्स॑वि॒तुर्वरेण्यं॒ भर्गो॑ दे॒वस्य॑ धीमहि । धियो॒ यो नः॑ प्रचो॒दया॑त्  ॥,” she continues like nothing is out of the ordinary, “We should expect occasional sudden glitches, small drifts in the supposed constants. The atmosphere since the doomsday scenario… well.”

Abby passes her hand through what should be a solid body.

”Shit,” The Guardian says, “this thing’s full of holes.”

“Where is Lexa?” Clarke asks, again. “What are you?”

"This has happened before," Abby murmurs, "Raven, this has—"

“You have a communication from Lexa, do you not?” The Guardian asks, and Abby throws her hand up to cover her mouth. She almost stumbles.

Raven doesn’t move, her mind whites out at the sharp, terrible vertigo of a very literal déja vu. This has happened before—it was Marcus, they were in Raven’s room, it was a hologram. Drone tech. She wonders if drones can time travel.

And time is causing Raven a huge amount of anxiety. She tries again, “Lexa died twice, once in Polis, once in the City of Light. How did you find Abby and not find Lexa?”

“Abby wanted to be found.”

The Guardian waits politely for a moment and then says, “There’s only so much I can do right now. I am a whole different matter, but still a replication of the Flame a thousand times over. Tailored from Raven's genetic stock, I am an A.I. and so much more. A hybrid. My template was Raven Reyes."

The thing actually winks at Raven, who blushes profoundly.

"Abby, in this timestream everything's different now. Something's happened."

The Guardian continues with a lot of good humor. The words are almost exactly whatever it was—Marcus or some kind of insanely advanced Tech—spoke to them weeks ago.

"I have access to whatever any of you have seen, experiences, emotions, preferences, personality; everything you are. I’m currently running my hologram programming and working solely from basic impressions, Raven’s memories—the last time you saw Lexa was, what? A few months ago? A year ago? And you’ve experienced the Fall, the apocalypse in your timeline. That’s why we got you out, that’s why we’ve been working with Becca, and John Murphy. There are gaps in your information. I apologize. What you’re hearing from me is neither more nor less of what Raven knows of Lexa. I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a computer,” Raven says dully.

“Not quite. But for now, the easiest answer is better than  _‘No, I’m actually Raven—as she was born to be and will be. As she always was’_.”

“Explain,” Marcus asks.

“Running quality control on an iteration of quantum mesh technology. Tesseracts.”

“Oh,” Abby says like that’s absolutely nothing. Like she's never seen, heard or witnessed this conversation before. Like time isn’t exploding in all of their faces. “The books, the quotes, our discussions while you brought me here. You’re an amalgamation of Lexa and what Lexa knows of us. Now, it’s what you know of me and Raven, of Clarke, of everything that has happened and will happen—you’re building your freeware in real time.” 

“Precisely, but it’s already been built. I’m not God.” the Guardian says, pleased. “Lexa is an anomaly. And she will do as she will.”

Bellamy’s actually the first to repeat the real question, the one important and non-relevant question about the Guardian’s function, “Where’s Lexa? Dead?”

“She’s—I’m sorry. We were only allowed to extract Abby,” the Guardian spreads her hands, the best she can do, “The rest is a matter of patience.”

“Where? How?”

“You have a choice,” she smiles.

“We go back.“ Clarke says, more strength to her voice than ever.

* * *

The Guardian shrugs, “As I said, it’s a new froth stratum. Right now I am not coherent, physically. It seems to go in and out. Who knows? You can try to shoot me in a minute and see what happens.”

“You're me?” Raven asks, now more fascinated than frightened.

“It’s in nascent stages; again my apologies for the shock but I truly enjoyed tonight, and you all. It’s always nice when we can do some good.” she sighs and quotes, “ _’In other words, if you can show your mind it reminds people that they have got a mind. If you can catch yourself thinking, it reminds people that they can catch themselves thinking. If you have a vivid moment that's more open and compassionate, it reminds people that they have those vivid moments.’_ ”

“You always did love Ginsberg,” Abby says and she and Raven share a smile, remembering. Marcus is oblivious, they never told him. Abby has fully committed to reliving this—she's wallowing in the differences, the resonances,

“So we go back to the last place and time we saw Lexa?” 

“Yes," the Guardian nods, "I can only offer you another string of embarrassing, infantile language, sorry—so not well thought out—but the urgency was acute and the curiosity was as well—I’ve waited so long to meet you, Raven. All of you.“ the Guardian shrugs sheepishly, _There is a place for all of us, a place where everyone is accepted, a City of Light._ Your creation," she says to Becca, “got all of that, and what it truly means, extremely wrong.”

“Obviously,” Marcus grunts.

The Guardian crosses the room to Raven; and looks at everyone slowly, in turn. “Do you all agree to this? I will send you back. Becca, you’re work in this world is done. Your atonement is complete. Somewhere the world did not fall. You all now have a choice.”

She waits patiently for their responses either way. No one says anything, but they gather together with their hands clasped in a circle around her.

“Forgive me one more quote, because your kind is so very, very good at them, and some Where, some Time and When, you haven’t destroyed any of it.  _‘I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness―in a landscape selected at random―is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern―to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.’”_

And with that, and before anyone can roll their eyes, the Guardian— _Raven_ —all of them—are gone.

* * *

They come back to the Tower. They come back to Polis. They come back perhaps an hour after Lexa and Indra were cut down. The blood on the furs in Lexa’s bedroom is still fresh. Clarke rights the wine that was spilled.

“Clarke,” Roan says, “Look at it. The blood is red.”

Everything is as it was, and everything is different. Raven looks down at her forearms and wrists. There’s blood seeping through the bandages—the old bandages, dirty and in desperate need of washing and re-wrapping—from when she tried to kill herself and Abby saved her life.

* * *

She shows up at Abby’s door later like she has for several weeks, shrugging out of her clothes as she enters and walks towards the bed. Her mood evaporates into need and desire and something else she absolutely refuses to deal with.

They fucked the first night they arrived back, bodies dappled with the blood of Raven’s wrist wounds as the bandages became slick with their sweat and came apart. The bandages disintegrate like Raven does when Abby touches her and they make love frantically.

They drag each other into the forest as far away from the others as they can get. Sweat and sex mix with the scent of ionized particles, moss, blood, and the collapse of two planes— _several planes_ —of consciousness into one another.

And every time since then they’ve gone at each other for hours—it’s like they’re trying to kill each other, it’s not really sane. They hardly talk. Afterwards, always, Raven leaves.

It’s not silence. Raven traces Abby’s impossibly elegant eyebrows. She kisses her jaw and whispers what she wants and what she’ll do for her as many times as she can. She places her lips on Abby’s throat where she lays her head to listen to Abby’s heartbeat, her pulse, as Abby slowly comes back to herself after going so far out. And then, like all the other times she rolls over and sits up.

“Raven?” Abby asks, after catching her breath, after wiping the sweat from her eyes. To her infinite credit, Abby doesn’t move or react or get angry. She just props her head up on her hand and watches Raven pull her clothes on.

Raven leans down, kisses Abby fiercely, and heads towards the door.

* * *

They’ve gone this deep before, so far out they can barely find their way back, finding sanity between them while chaos roils in behind Raven’s eyes.

Abby closes her eyes against being so needed and so shut out at the same time, and she arches her entire body back to extend her own agony of pleasure—just seeing Raven fall apart is almost too much—

Abby releases Raven’s arm and notices bright new bruises starting to form. She traces her fingers over them as Raven catches her breath. Abby smoothes her hands over Raven’s skin and then down towards Raven’s wrists and the scars.

“This needs rewrapping,” Abby says absently.

“Don’t.”

“How long do you think you can fuck me and not talk to me?” Abby is deceptively calm. She slips her hand between them and her fingers hover just at the edge of Raven’s opening, stroking gently.

“Talk.”

Raven bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut as tears start. She’s moving against Abby despite herself. “Please, just fu—“

“If you ask me to do it, I’ll leave you here.” Abby continues to stroke her patiently. She bends down, licks down Raven’s chest and tongues one of Raven’s nipples. She does that for a long time. 

And Raven starts to cry. Her hands fall to Abby’s shoulders and under her hair, they stroke down her back and rest, fluttering, on her lower spine. She can feel the coiled strength Abby’s using to control herself—it’s extremely precise and measured. And Raven cries silently when Abby raises her head and kisses the corner of her mouth, and turns Raven’s eyes to meet hers. Abby is crying too. Abby enters her then and holds still, and whispers, “Just feel me, okay? Stay quiet for me. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Raven obeys because, “Abby, you were dead. You were gone. I didn’t—“

“I know.” Abby coaxes her gently, “Raven, I know. You were gone from me, too.”

When Raven doesn’t answer, because she can’t, because she’s crying even harder and can’t catch her breath, Abby cups her jaw and continues, “I took the chip, Raven. I know what it did. I know. We shared that, okay? You’re not alone, and you don’t have to be alone. There’s no shame in it. You were hurting. And look what we did together—it all worked out.”

“What are you, Abby?”

“I’m a doctor,” Abby smiles wryly, “Raven, we’ve never seen the ocean. Let’s go one day, okay? I want to do that with you–“

Raven laughs because yes, she would love to go to the ocean.

“Abby.” She reaches down to stop Abby’s hand, and Abby nuzzles the side of Raven’s nose, “Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I need to say something, okay?”

Abby nods, makes a small murmur of assent.

“I tortured you. Me, Jackson and Jaha. I know, I saw you.  _I was there._  It was me. A.L.I.E. was me—I was aware of everything I was doing.” Raven wipes angrily at her, “I did that to you. You gave your life for mine.

Abby squeezes her hand and stays quiet, waiting. When Raven shivers against her, she draws the furs over them and answers, “Yes I did. And what did we build together? You also had enough of your self to know what to do with the _Natblida_ Lexa gave us. You just did it backwards, reversed engineered it—the basic mathematical definition of a strange attractor—The Flame, Lexa, that creature claiming to be made from your thoughts and memories—you can trace a chaotic map that way, learn the dynamics of it, and kind of follow dissipative systems back to square one.

Raven picks at the thin blanket covering them, “Shit, even the simplest explanation is going to be pretty baroque. But this wasn’t complicated. Who are you now? Where were you taken?”

“Somewhere safe, a world entirely made of water. I don’t remember much,” Abby says. She sounds remote, unreachable, and then, “sweetheart.”

This is what’s between them.

“Raven, that was _not_ you when you did this to yourself,” she kisses Raven’s wrists wounds. “You had no free will. Jaha made sure of it. Do you know the story of the golem—a creature that was created with the breath of life but without the light of knowledge or the heart? That’s what A.L.I.E. was. That’s not you.”

Raven pushes herself up and hovers over Abby on impossibly strong arms, “You took the chip for me. I tortured you.”

“Raven. Stop. If you have to, forgive yourself, but I don’t see that you do. You certainly don’t need my forgiveness. I don’t blame you for any of it.”

“I can’t. How have you forgiven Jaha?”

God, this girl is stubborn.

“I knew him my entire life. He lost the only thing he loved more than anything, more than his own life. He lost his son. He went against everything he is, because he lost Wells. Do you know he was going to offer himself up to the rest of the volunteers in the Culling?”

Raven did not. “Abby, what about Jake. What’s the difference between you and Jaha and me? Something in you is stronger than we are.”

“I had to find Clarke.” Abby takes a deep breath, and says, ”I had to find you. No one survives alone.”

They sit together on the carpet in Abby’s room, and Abby talks about a house of skylights she wants to build in a redwood grove, how she wants to run every morning on dirt trails with breezes blowing off the water. She wants a room looking out to a meadow.

* * *

Abby knows a thing or two about the body. It’s a miracle. If you think of the body and what it houses, consciousness, it’s a shitshow of a scene. Bodies are all kind of funny looking. They break down, die, feel unimaginable pleasure, whatever. 

Descended from single cell plankton that crawled out of the primordial sea—it’s the most astonishing accomplishment you’ve ever imagined.

Abby craves Raven and Raven obviously craves Abby, but the difference is—here at the 32nd post-end of the world or whatever it is at this point—Abby’s stopped denying herself anything, after all that they’ve been through. So she goes to Raven.

Raven stands in the middle of her room stock still, startled and obviously pissed. Raven manages to look frightened, ashamed and put out all at the same time. She starts to undress.

Abby’s too upset to tell her stop it because the  _last thing_  they’re going to do right now is fuck. So Abby just stalks over and jerks Raven’s shirt back on.

“We’re all free, Raven.”

Abby’s only ever been the one person who could mortify Raven like this in her entire life, and she just schooled her. It sucks for her but it’s true.

"Yeah, well,” Raven says, closing her eyes and tipping her head back. “At least we are, right? I’m surprised Clarke hasn’t killed herself.”

There doesn’t seem like there’s an awful lot to say after that.

* * *

When Raven asks Abby about their meeting in the City of Light, the final assault—late at night when they lie together, sweat drying on their bodies in Abby’s room—Abby can barely answer.

So, Raven tells her what she saw in the code. Lexa was the last of her line. Raven tells Abby she knows what happened between Clarke and the Commander. She cups Abby’s face gently and turns her so they can see each other, outlined in light and dark, bathed in moonlight.

“I know who she was to Clarke. I’m the only one who saw.”

“I’m so sorry.” Abby says, “But you’re wrong. I was with Lexa, at the end. And I don’t know any more than you do.”

Instead of answering—and Raven knows what kind of damage has been done for another lifetime between mother and daughter because Abby survived and Lexa didn't—she slides her hands between Abby’s legs and rolls them over. She makes them both as happy as she can.

* * *

Raven sticks by Clarke as much as she can—small touches on the shoulder to calm her. She makes sure Clarke is aware of what's happening, leaning over her to help her keep a stack of papers steady in her hand. It's starting. The legends are already being told around hearths; hunting parties see her in animals stalking the forests just beyond their camps.

The Commander is silent; the Flame has gone to ground as if it had never been. Its work is done on this plane of flesh and life and all the things that entails. It’s like losing a God in your midst or she imagines, watching your Savior be crucified and then having to walk away from Golgotha with your hands dripping with His blood.

All becomes silence, all is desperately human again and lost—the deity is finally gone from the Earth and the ten thousand things are the stuff of manuscripts and the world before the End.

How do you live after that? There’s no philosophy after the one you love more than your own soul dies.

* * *

The first time it happens it scares the shit out of both of them.

The necklace Clarke wears, the simple thing Raven made for her, tucks the Flame against her heart and Clarke hides the reminder, a scar really, from most people. Abby and Bellamy can’t school their emotions or themselves to save their lives, but Clarke can be straight up ice. 

It happens the first time late at night when the two of them stay up drinking and talking nonsense.

After a few glasses of strong Grounder liquor between the both of them, Raven holds out her hand to touch the dizzyingly powerful crystal. It falls out of Clarke’s open shirt, and it sparkles in the candlelight. Clarke freezes—her wide blue eyes shine like a late summer lake, with depths of hurt and grief. Before Raven can stammer out an apology Clarke takes her hand, murmuring that it’s okay—she’s fine. Raven has no idea what she’s saying, maybe  _You’re here and we’re alive. It’s okay. I’m okay_.

“You’re not serious?” Raven reels back, incredulous. "You're not _okay._ "

“Raven—“

Clarke pulls away and genuinely laughs at the look on her face. (She actually has no idea what her face is doing, but it must be ridiculous.)

“Raven, oh my god. Are you kidding me right now? Enhanced neurons, your A.I. brain, like, whatever you are—Raven 2.0 supercomputer—what even are you? 13 years old? Lexa left me. She’s dead. I’m not going to think about this anymore.”

* * *

Some people—warriors and plain folk, carpenters, blacksmiths, artisans, healers—all throw themselves into the good, clean work of rebuilding a civilization. It’s taken a few months of working for any of them to hope they deserve a second, third, or countless more chances to live and flourish.

And Clarke dreams of shimmering, beautifully expressive eyes, fire where they catch the moon, a glowing beacon in the dark, always gone like smoke when she wakes.

* * *

Abby reaches over and tucks a strand of damp, silken hair behind Raven’s ear.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No more than you can. What’s on you tonight?” Raven murmurs pushing unconsciously into the stroke of Abby’s hand across her cheek and scalp and rolling over to drape her arm around Abby’s neck. Her lips brush against Abby’s ear and she hears her sigh deep in her chest, happy for the reassurance.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

Raven doesn’t blame her and keeps quiet just matching her breathing to Abby’s, offering her presence. She pulls her closer so their bodies are flush and tangles her fingers in Abby’s hair, bringing her lips to hers. Abby loses herself in the welcome of Raven’s mouth and the strength of her hands against her ribs, tracing between the muscles of her spine.

Raven leans over her and kisses her, pulling back a little so her eyes are all Abby sees.

“You dream about Lexa, too. I’ve heard you.” Raven says afterward when they’ve caught their breath

When Abby doesn't answer, Raven rolls her eyes, “Abby, please, I dream about her too. I was there with both of you.” 

Abby pushes herself up and out of bed, wrapped in only a sheet and crosses the room as far away from Raven as she can get without storming out. Raven just waits. They’ve fought before, and thrown things and not talked for days. Raven figures Abby will get tired of protecting Clarke from the very real possibility that Lexa is truly dead. She waits for what she deems a polite amount of time and then—Abby’s suddenly hovering over her.

“I don’t want to talk about Lexa. I’m not doing this anymore with you.”

“What—“

Raven yelps as Abby moves her mouth over to her breasts, sucking hard on her nipples while tracing her flanks and her ribs, and then she slides down again, her tongue traveling the line bisecting Raven’s body, and Raven raises up and spreads her legs. Abby barely touches her cunt, deliberately avoiding it, causing Raven to shift around continuously, trying to place herself against her tongue, whimpering, and when Abby’s tongue lightly brushes her clit, Raven leans in, staring intently as Abby’s tongue goes in and out while she strokes herself off.

Raven drops to her knees and buries her face in Abby’s cunt, her fingers spreading her lips. Abby strokes through her hair softly, murmuring encouragement, as Raven’s fingers move in and out of her, her other hand running over her ass. Abby wraps her fingers around Raven’s neck and glides them up through her hair, tugging gently.

"Look at me." 

Raven blinks up at her, eyes wide and unfocused, waiting.

"Kiss me," Raven finally whispers, and Abby does, deeply. The kiss is languid and slow—so intimate and quiet and powerful Raven wants to cry. Abby’s trying to tell her what she went through this way, with her body, her life—because, otherwise it’s ineffable. There’s no way tell someone you love that you’re not quite sure what you are anymore. So instead—

Her tongue sweeps out, just barely touching Abby’s, and Abby moans. Abby tastes like salt and earth as if this earth and ocean wrapped around her and never let go.

"Fuck me." Abby’s fingers slide up and down Raven’s neck, and back into her scalp, gripping handfuls of her hair. Raven nods helplessly and runs her tongue from Abby’s clit and lower, to her ass and back. She sucks Abby into her mouth and enters her, she fucks her with three fingers. Abby rides her hard, flinching like she’s being slapped in the face, all her color flooding back, and her warmth, and with a look of unutterable joy.

“Tell me,” Raven gasps, “tell me what—“

"Go lie down." Abby barely manages, slowing down and she rolls her hips, catching herself on the edge of coming, holding herself there. She cups Raven’s chin and pulls her hand out from between her legs, opens Raven’s mouth and watches as Raven licks her come off her hand. Her gaze doesn’t leave Raven’s.

"Lie down."

Raven does what she’s told. She sits on the bed and turns, moving toward the middle. She shivers when she realizes she’s crawling on her hands and knees because Abby wants her to.

"Lie back. Close your eyes." Raven must look—

Raven must look—

Abby smiles at her and tilts her head. "Raven,” she breathes, “Do you want it or not?" She asks in a quiet, amused voice.

Raven is full and hard, but the blankets and sheets are soft and warm against her bare skin. Between her legs, the mattress dips as Abby settles and her hands smooth up the back of Raven’s legs. Abby draws her mouth up the entire length of Raven’s torso, and up her neck, coiling her hair around her hand. Raven can tell that Abby loves what she sees. Abby sighs, running her hands up over Raven’s hips opening her legs. Abby lowers herself down on Raven’s strong thigh and begins to rock against her, gathering Raven’s wrists in her hands and holding them above her head.

Random curses and words slip out of Abby as she slides over Raven, again and again, soaking her with come, and Raven’s desperate to touch her but Abby has her wrists and she can't move. Abby's breathing is staggered, harsh.

When Abby starts to breathe out her name, Raven finally finds her voice, “You’re so beautiful.”

Something about the way Raven says her name, right before she comes, has Abby keening as she flies over the edge after her. She stretches over her, shivering with waves of pleasure and she moans Raven’s name, gasping.

When Abby sinks down next to her, her hand covers Raven’s, still inside her, not letting her leave. That's the last thing Raven wants to do, leave, and she rolls over to kiss Abby, deep and slow—like before, like all the times she should have in her life.

She shifts on top of Abby and she can’t help it, she wants it too much.

Abby's eyes flash, and then Raven feels her legs being spread by Abby's knees—Abby’s done this before and she’s grounding her in the familiar—in what's theirs and theirs only—but nothing prepares her for Abby’s hand just sliding down her stomach and between her legs, stroking her over and back, over and over, slowly until she’s whimpering again. Hopelessly begging Abby, because she’s plateauing, shaking—sweat sliding down her neck.

“Inside,  _God_. Inside.” 

And she’s waited to hear Abby’s low, pleased laughter for what feels like her entire life. It feels like she was born to unravel and fly apart at just the slightest of touches and Abby’s voice and sounds and body filling her and promising her everything she refused before—Abby's hands run up Raven’s arms and stretch her completely over her entire body as she finally enters Raven and gives her what she wants.

* * *

The rider comes back to the world on a wild, wet night of storms and autumn winds. She’s chosen a remote area, the foothill regions just south of Polis where she was born. A valley of streams and cold, snow-melt laden rivers—and forests running towards the sea.

Her hand reaches out tentatively to feel the air around her, the weight of it and the taste, the smell after so much time away and then her hand falters against where she's lifted it to the sky. Unsettled by her own hesitation, she breathes in the rain and the darkness and dismounts to step onto the saturated, welcoming ground and she walks several paces ahead of her mount, falling to her knees, doubling over with the onslaught of life overwhelming all her senses at once. 

It burns her skin with its welcome. She reels against the now concerned animal that has stepped near to help in some way. She laughs and stops him from kneeling down to allow her to slide up again onto his back. Warhorses.

She tries to stand again, unprepared for the wave of feeling that crashes over her, all of it, all of her lives, everything she was and is and will be on the edge of the crisp, brine-soaked wind. 

She is home.

* * *

Raven cracks an eye open from where she’s sprawled out across the bed dozing. Abby moves out of the swathe of early dawn sunlight so she can Raven’s cheek until Raven blearily and grudgingly looks at her straight on.

"How long have you been creeping on me?" Raven asks, smiling

Abby hesitates over her. “I—” she swallows, painfully shy all of a sudden. “What you mean to me...” She clears her throat. Abby rubs at her face, and tries again, "I hope you see with every day that ..."

She can’t do it, and Raven loves her for it. They're both idiots. When she shuts herself down, closes off, Raven sees Abby again.  _Abby._  Her best friend is here and she’s trying. She has only three words for it, three stupid words _._

Raven puts her hand over Abby’s. Abby's eyes widen just enough for her to know she needs to intervene somehow or Abby is really going to lose it.

“I’m glad, okay?” Raven whispers.

Raven’s words, her honest simplicity, dismantle Abby completely; and she bends her head to Raven’s and kisses her. Raven can taste her tears before she sees them and draws back to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs. Then, Raven pulls Abby to her and rolls them over so Abby is under her. Raven leans away, looking into her eyes.

"Okay?" Raven asks, softly, even more carefully.

Abby sighs, closes her eyes and nods.

“I mean,” Raven smiles, “you didn’t think you were getting any of this for free, right?” 

Abby bites down into her neck and Raven kisses her temple, “You’re a pain in the ass, Griffin. I’m hungry, like for food... are you?”

Raven stretches out her leg and massages it absently—old habits— before getting out of bed, distracting as hell and beautifully naked, to cross the room and gather up her clothes.

"I’m going to go find Clarke. She’s been pushing herself hard these last few weeks. Roan and I have everything under control—Clarke needs to rest." Raven says, after a moment, slipping on her shirt and pants and coming back to sit next to Abby. Who hasn’t moved and hadn’t planned to.

"It’s hard for her this time of year," Abby says.

Abby’s fingers lift up, and she runs the palm of her hand over Raven’s mouth, her chin, between her eyes, soothing the adorable frown line on her forehead Raven makes without knowing it. This is what Raven loves about her. She can let them both  _be_.

Raven stares out at the morning and nods. This time of year is tough on all of them. Abby can’t stand it and snaps at everyone, or worse, cries herself to sleep. Marcus goes into a huge depression. Bellamy kicks things. Murphy gets especially pissy and Emori just disappears into the woods by herself for a few days. Who knows what Roan does? Usually, he challenges any poor shmuck to a duel and beats the crap out of them and then Abby orders him on bed rest for a couple of days—which he not so secretly gets a huge kick out of. Talking about it only does so much for any of them. They’ve all come so far, but the memories are jagged and painful. No one dares to ask Clarke anything. No one but Raven, or Roan. Not even Abby, especially Abby—who is alive.

Abby's eyes slip shut; and then Raven's tracing Abby’s bottom lip, thumb brushing past the edges of her teeth, and Abby bites down playfully on the tips of her fingers.

* * *

Raven finds Clarke in the gardens with Roan. She sits next to them. After almost twenty minutes, Clarke finally speaks.

"The Commanders are silent. All of them. They’ve been quiet for months." Clarke says

Raven sort of laughs at that, unwillingly, and turns to her. “It’s a beautiful day. We’ll go for a ride later. I just need to check in with Monty and Jasper about—“ She waves vaguely. People’s eyes go stupid when she starts talking science with them.

“You’ve got some bruises, Reyes.”

“Your mom—“ Raven shakes her head, “Ew. You know what? Fuck you. I’m not making a your mom joke with you.”

Clarke’s eyes lose some of their terrible sadness and Raven’s heart skips a beat when she sees it.

“No one ever thanked you, did they?” Raven poses it as a question, but it’s not. It’s infuriating. She hates all of them sometimes.

Clarke looks at her, "Only you. And mom."

Roan snorts.

“You never explicitly said thank you, you dick.” Clarke glares at him.

Roan ignores her, “You saved the world, Raven. And you haven’t told anyone.”

Raven flushes a little. It’s endearing and heartbreaking and Clarke doesn’t understand how either of them survived any of their companions and friends and whatever they call them now. Marcus, Abby, Murphy, Emori, Roan, and Bellamy know. Pike knew, in his way. Octavia knows.

Raven and Clarke are not  _normal_. None of the core group, companions and friends and lovers is. Pretending otherwise is backbreaking work.

“I wonder how they did it, the first people after the End of the World. I wonder what stories we don’t know and will never be told.” Clarke shifts and leans into Raven’s side. “You know more than you’re telling.”

“So do you.”

Their shared connection to the  _Natblida_ , and the two versions of the A.I. downloaded, overloaded them with so much information it's hard to speak for about any of it coherently. It's hard to breathe. Both of them had to learn calming, meditative exercises just to quiet the clamoring voices and images. And Lexa trained since she was three to do it. It almost drove them out of their minds.

* * *

It's Murphy who figures out what was happening. He takes one look at both of them, nearly catatonic, and hauls them out to the forests beyond Polis for a much needed crash-course in processing information dumps.

“I’ve been tortured, like, since we came down to this shithole. I know what I’m doing. I teach you, you teach everyone else.”

He just has them sit and concentrate on things that can be seen, heard, smelled. He teaches them how to control their breathing. And then admits that Jaha, of all people, had shown him what to do in order not to have a psychotic break.

“The bastard was good for a few things,” he says.

“What’s next, talking to animals?”

“Basically, smart ass.”

“That’s adorable, John.”

“Fuck  _off_.”

* * *

"Yeah, they’ve been silent with me too..." Raven says. "You  _shouldn't_   be surprised they go offline around now. They become impossible and obtuse, more so than usual. I think the last message was,  _‘No creature ever falls short of its own completeness,” says Zen master Dogen. “Wherever it stands it does not fail to cover the ground.’_ Which, sure?"

Clarke makes some kind of distracted, amused noise in response. When she looks over, Raven is studying her.

She still hates being looked at, but Raven's solid presence gets her through a hairy couple of minutes of pure self-loathing.

Clarke smiles faintly, “So we're all we've got, right? You like me, huh? And it’s worth sticking around for you?”

"You’re stupid, Clarke. Everyone  _likes_ you."

“Oh, fuck Raven, she's ridiculous.” Roan says, “Clarke, stick around for me.”

* * *

She acclimates and waits. She travels at night. She hunts and disappears in the spaces between trees and stone, the interstices between now and then, past and present, different levels and realms of scaffolding code and organic matter as she comes closer, nearer to  _her_. She blends into the backdrop of the woods she knows more intimately than herself. Anyone who sees her, or sees  _something_ , shakes their head against the sudden apparition and mumbles to themselves about angles of light, refractions, and ghost stories. She unclasps her sash, takes off all of her armor and drops it into the Great River, doesn’t even watch it as it drifts away on the rushing waters. In fact, she strips away any evidence of her former self. Why she was sent back with these pitiful reminders she’ll never know and is too amused to ask. It’s absurd now. 

Outside the city, in the sharp cold of an autumn's morning, the clear sky is full of what looks like glittering snow. She pauses and reins in her horse and looks up and around, understands that what she’s seeing is what she’s always been aware of in her periphery vision but is now just a fact of her newborn senses. The sheer walls, the Tower in its midst— the flame still glowing against the sky—the unbelievable  _life_  of it, of Polis, echoes and reflects through her body. And with that comes unbidden flashes of memories, desperately needed. She drinks them in like she’s been without nourishment or water for aeons, and she supposes that’s true. 

“Please. You’re frightening my herd,” thunders a man a few yards behind her, in what was probably meant to be a quiet whisper. She breathes in deeply once again, the air still new to her, and then nods, turns and clucks to her horse. She’s slightly shaken. Tired of hiding. A flash of sunlight through the copse of trees she skirts around throws her shadow diagonally in front of her, and she almost startles at it, surprised to see she’s corporeal at all.

When will she be easy with it? She laughs at her first instinct, at least that hasn’t changed. She’d wanted to cut down the farmer where he stood, knock him off his feet and on to his knees. Remind him of whom he addressed in such a tone. Her blood runs cold with the power she has to keep in check, and she knows who she aches for—who  _she_  wants to kneel in front of and never—well, soon. Soon enough.

* * *

Raven sits back and frowns. She isn’t sure what Murphy’s babbling about, if he’s being a dick or being serious or not. Monty just stares at him and puts down whatever he’s been fiddling with and casts a glance at Raven, who really has just about had it with any kind of drama—the sated lassitude of her night and morning with Abby is draining out of her with each passing minute John keeps talking. 

“Four years probably isn’t a very long at all to an intelligence that’s virtually immortal… “ Murphy finally gets the clue he’s freaking everyone out and trails off, he wants, needs them to understand he’s being serious. Emori puts her hand against his lower back and mutters for him to breathe and start again.

“There have been reports over the last week,” John winces. “I wouldn’t believe them except I’ve spent too much time with fucking messianic lunatics like Jaha and Titus. All of their spiritual technobabble comes down to one thing. The Flame is sentient and it has an Avatar.” 

“Murphy, we know. The Avatar was Lexa. All the Commanders before her…” Monty is seriously uneasy. He likes John, doesn’t have much to do with him, but knows what he went through. He has a deep amount of respect for this kid, and he adores Emori.

John holds up a cloak and thrusts it towards Raven. A red cloak. “Someone want to tell me what the fuck this is?”

“Red’s been banned,” Emori says, unnecessarily. And Bellamy slumps against the window. They all know what she means. In the terrifying weeks afterwards—after they came back and found the Tower empty—Clarke lost her mind and descended into madness. She ordered any and all things  _Red_  in the city illegal. Anyone found with red contraband would be hung.

Abby and Marcus stayed a few executions before they happened, even set up elaborate farces with fake blood, and wire but Clarke was told the punishments had been meted out, and even Abby couldn’t look her in the face. Clarke’s eyes were bloodcurdling. The black cloth draped over the walls, miles of black, stayed for months and Clarke, after a week of refusing to leave her room, refusing to eat or drink, had cut off all her hair.

Abby and Raven found her with a blunt knife—cursing and drooling, holding herself up against the wall—wrapped in the sheets of Lexa’s bed, crying helplessly. They picked her up and finished the hack job for her, tended to the wounds on her scalp. Gave her sips of water, eggs and honey, fed her slowly and carefully and waited for her to come back to herself, waited for her to come back from where she’d gone. A living death, as far out as was allowed, following Lexa until she was turned back by forbidding shadow sentinels standing guard at an infinite wall of light and mist.

Just then the note of background noise around them alters. Monty turns around and looks at one of his handheld screens, which is actually making noises at them. Something it doesn’t do. Ever. It sounds a little giddy, to be honest. Monty stares at it. 

“Raven?” His voice sounds high-pitched and strangled. Raven tears her eyes away from the cloak to look at him. “The code. It’s the same—“ 

Raven glances at it, does a spit-take, and frowns. “Doesn’t it know better?”

“Who’s  _“it”_ , Raven?” Even Emori is spooked.

Raven points at what looks like sheer, indecipherable imbecility on screen, a cascade of glowing numbers and letters, incandescent green and blue symbols. Monty’s skin crawls. He hasn’t seen anything like this since that terrible night they fought for their lives. He never wanted to see it again. 

“How do you do something entirely visionary and sensible at the same time?” Raven says to herself, her voice layered with awe. 

“Are you talking to the damn screen or are you asking us to like, discuss this with you?” Murphy snaps. “Why are you so fucking  _weird._ ”

“Look at it,” Raven traces her hands over the screen, in awe. “So dangerous, so alive with itself, so happy. Monty, don’t you see it? It’s all there, She's there. She’s here. Back. Her whole being is here. I didn’t think—God,  _look at her_. She’s gorgeous.”

The code jumps, practically dancing with joy under Raven’s touch. It hints at  _everything_. And Raven watches it and weeps. It attracts her and repulses her at once, and it sings to her. Its intelligence is singular. Its love, unmistakable. 

“I want my handheld back, Raven. I was playing a game. Make it stop.”

“You guys. Shut up. Get Abby.” Raven breathes. “Someone go get Clarke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes are Allen Ginsberg and Nabokov


	18. Chapter 18

 “Do you recognize this?” the farmer asks, fishing a leather cord from beneath his shirt.

Her breath catches, and she stretches out a hand, brushes a finger across the heavy tin. The man opens it, there had been a needle, there was one vial of black blood left—the crystal isn’t there, though.

“I recognize it,” she says, her voice suddenly hoarse. “How did you come by it? I thought—“

She trembles. The man doesn’t know if she’s laughing or crying. Perhaps both. “Tell me where the Flame is,” she insists.

“ _Sha._ We found it in the city—it was barren for weeks. And there were scavengers in the Tower—we took this off of one of them when they crossed our land. The Flame is gone, or I don’t know where it is.”

His wife turns from the window. “I will send a message to the _Skaikru_ there, they do their best with the other Clans,” She shrugs, “but it has nothing to do with us. We are simple people, and what transpired has nothing to do with folk like us who work the earth, does it? _Heda_ is dead. Her Coalition—” The heat in her eyes intensifies, she’s more serious than her husband, stronger, and she grips a long cooking knife in her hand—unconsciously, as some kind of threat and protection, and the girl smiles to herself. No one truly believes what’s right in front of them.

She stands, “Thank you for the meal, and the rest of it. I won’t stay any longer. My apologies for keeping you from your work.”

“We saw a great storm, nothing more, the day the city fell. Our animals and livestock they—I’ve not seen anything like it. They broke through the gates and stampeded into the valley, all of them. Took damn near a week to corral them all back.” He’s laughing, shaking with it. The girl can see tears rolling down his cheeks. “We saw the red smoke, you cannot tell us otherwise, but I swear to you by the first Commander and by my hope of rebirth and salvation, you will not ride alone any longer.” And then he adds, unnecessarily. “Whoever you are.”

The girl inclines her head once in acknowledgment, “I don’t exist, friend. If you are asked.”

“That much we know.”

* * *

Wind sighs through the trees, rich with the smell of loam and moss, the air is heavy with a recent squall off the ocean. She can see the Tower looming high and dark, lights blinking on and disappearing, a great shadow blocking out the stars. The rough ground makes her think twice about riding any closer. There’s no way to do that unseen.

She rests at night in small hunting caves and watches the clouds fly across the moon. And there’s someone else here—some new consciousness that’s as familiar to her as her own—it’s never very far, day or night, and it watches her patiently.

“Will you come, then? We’ve been gone so long, you and I. I can’t be here alone.” She coaxes a small fire for the both of them.

Her body plays the part of living eagerly enough. _A part in a vast play,_ she reminds herself, _I was always an actor. But no more. I had to do it once, out of duty and what I thought was true._

“There is only one thing that is True, isn’t there?” she asks the night again, the conversation long overdue, “even you didn’t understand that.”

“I suppose you think I know what you’re talking about,” the laconic, beguiling voice finally answers, and she sighs in relief and closes her eyes and gives thanks.

“Come out into the light, then, and share a small meal with me. I’ve missed you.” She looks up with a wide, shy smile and stands to embrace her true friend. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

* * *

We still trust each other, Lexa thinks later, as they both unroll their beddings to sleep. Death, like that—like they’ve experienced, doesn’t ever have to happen again for them. She did what needed to be done, saved her people and her land. She could rest next to her friend, and someday, they could laugh about it.

“I didn’t know anything before I found her,” she begins, and the other woman turns to her, “It was so sweet, though, and more besides. She fell asleep with her head against my chest, and that was beautiful, and I was happy for the first time since— well, since. I wasn’t afraid, in the end.”

“She is worth that, at least,” her friend murmurs.

She thinks of the _Natblida_ , the conclave, she thinks she never has to fight alone again. It will never happen again, not in this new world.

“And when she kissed your ears or bit your neck, was it what you wanted?” The teasing obviously won’t stop, and the girl doesn’t even care, so long as it’s her friend and First.

Lexa laughs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never—“

“That’s none of your concern.” The woman smiles and then her expression turns severe in the firelight, thoughtful. 'And then?'

“I don't remember,” she whispers, looking down at her hands. 'I don't remember anything more.”

“You remember everything. You must. It was complete and utter stillness, and I was cinders, a husk, a shell of who I once was. And now? You called me home.” Anya curses under her breath, "You called me home, Lexa. There's no peace here."

"There is life. Anya, I was—cared for. From the beginning of time to the end of time. It was math, numbers. All with their own sound, fractals, dimensions. I was no longer alone, as we see it here—I was being healed in a world so ancient it defies the definition. It was of light and dark. I was pieced together there, held. I had come to do what was needed of me. All Commanders are facets of the same jewel. That intelligence, the being that shared my consciousness, brought us back—it learned to love us. And that's the only thing, human or otherwise, that doesn't adhere to dimensions of space and time. Think of it like a Mass—"

"and we are the celebrants."

Lexa nods and says no more.

There's a small silence and then Anya hisses through her teeth and shakes herself all over, like a dog shaking off rain.

'Listen carefully, don’t wait any longer. Go to her. You have me now, and I will go where you go. Even if I can’t fucking _stand_ any of them.” She snorts, disgusted, and just like that, Lexa's First is back. Really _there_ with her. She reaches out to clasp her forearm and is tugged firmly into an embrace.

* * *

Raven steps inside. The New Med Facility is cold, and the light is fluorescent and horrible. She waits as her eyes settle and adjust, then she turns past the guards, who sketch a hello at her, and goes further in towards where Abby is looking through some charts.

“Where are they now?” Abby doesn’t look up.

“I'm going to send Clarke east. That's the last rumored sighting.”

“They know not to kill each other, I hope?”

“Clarke can’t kill Lexa. She may lose her mind, but she won't kill her. Like, she’s physically incapable.” Raven’s amusement is real. “Even if she wanted. She’s tried to before…. Well, _before_.”

Abby continues to mark through her files, “How are you doing with all of this?”

Raven raises her shoulder and drops it, and then realizes Abby is still not looking at her, “Mostly okay. I trust what I saw in the code.”

“I know. And I trust you.” Abby finally glances up and slips her reading glasses into her hair. She puts down her pen, and folds her hands together, “That _is_ Lexa, right?”

“Yes.”

“Want to explain?”

“She’s not fully an A.I., still. She’s human. She’s also not a simulation. Neither of them—” Raven shakes her head.

“They burned Lexa's body. Roan witnessed it, so did Clarke. Anya died months before that.” Abby waits patiently for Raven to answer, "whatever timeline we're in, whoever you are or I am—Lexa and Anya died in every timeline we know."

“Lexa and Anya’s specific experiences and memories, anyone’s really, is passed down through their genetic line. Everyone retains the genetic memories of every ancestor in their bloodline. Lexa, especially, can access the memories and personalities of all the people in her lineage—all the _Hedas_ before her—and whatever information specific to her that remained in the cloud after her death here, in the Real.”

Abby looks at her blankly, like she isn't the doctor she is, and then gestures for Raven to go on.

“Lexa and Anya are experiencing us as a lucid dream.” Raven sighs because it’s patently absurd, “It’s apparently a much more immersive experience than anything we know of. That’s why we’re experiencing them as ‘alive’.” Raven finishes weakly, “I don’t really get it and I know this stuff backward and upside down.”

“But that’s a general idea.”

“Yes. The code doesn’t lie.” Raven decides right now is not the best time to mention that the code actually _sang_ to her.

Abby watches her, “No, that makes sense. Although I don’t understand how either of them is breathing or solid, as we understand it. I mean, I assume Clarke will be able to touch Lexa and Anya. They— she’s real?”

“Yep. Both of them. Any of the _Natblida_ can do this, and in Anya’s case, it's possible to ah... ask for. Lexa has access to the lineage before her, and any _Heda_ to come. The only thing I can even imagine happening is that the A.I.  formed a special connection to Lexa, one that caused it to evolve into a sentience on a level—Abby, the level jump is huge. That sentience took special care with Lexa. Made sure she resurrected, not just reincarnated.”

“The AI fell in love with her?”

Raven nods, “Yes, exactly. And there’s more…”

Abby slumps back in her chair and looks fixedly at her hands.

“No, listen. It’s pretty cool.” Raven warms up, excited, “ _Hedas_ and this Artificial Intelligence pass their ego/memory to other people’s consciousness at will. So, let’s say Lexa missed Anya, which clearly she did, the poor lovesick AI is going to make sure that Anya gets brought back too.”

“How romantic.”

“Totally. The AI accepted Lexa’s life experience—not only accepted it but craved it. Lexa wasn’t allowed to die.”

“Okay,” Abby runs her hands over her face wearily, “I’m just going to drop the scientist/doctor thing and go with that. Because, what the _fuck_.”

Raven pulls a face, “Yes, best to do that.”

Abby tilts her head back and stares at the ceiling, “How are you with all of this?”

“You mean, who do I think I am? I'm assuming I'm in the 'I don't even know" phase of my timelines. I'm unstuck in time. That's fine with me.” She doesn't say _because of you._

“Yes.”

Raven takes Abby’s offered hand and allows herself to sink down into the chair, halfway defeated. It’s Abby, and Abby knows more about her than anyone.

"I should have known," Raven says, quietly. “The Ground has never been easy for Clarke. Why would that change?”

"Do you want Finn back?"

Raven shakes her head, "No. He'd never forgive me."

* * *

Raven scowls. 'Why not? You can't just stay here, Clarke. She’s here. Lexa’s here.”

“Why hasn’t she shown herself yet? How could she possibly be alive?”

"What if I’m right?" Raven gestures wildly at Abby as if to say: _well, look who is alive, you fucking head case…”_ What if she does show herself? You’ll feel stupid you didn’t go to her first. She's coming back to this now, here, because it's a memory, a life, an artifact she remembers. There are things here that were hers, and no one else's. Sure, its technology and a human mind. It's her heart, which should matter the most. You're hers, Clarke. It is not ephemeral.”

Clarke flushes and looks away.

“She’s a tough bastard,” Roan says. “And really, none of us have the slightest goddamn idea what’s going on anymore. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, given what’s already happened.”

“It's just a hunch Raven has, nothing more.” Clarke insists.

“A hunch? A hunch. Fuck _you_ , Clarke.”

Raven gives Clarke more real information in five minutes than she can reasonably handle on her own, even with Abby’s help. Raven’s insistence that Lexa is alive, takes hold of a small, soft and eager place deep within her and won’t let go; every emotion she can feel is clouding the world around her.

She's abandoned hope so long ago, along with compassion and terror—awe at things. She’s a shell of the person she was. But her feelings, emotions she can’t even name anymore because they’ve been suffocated by loneliness, sweep through her powerfully. She finds herself clinging to a lifeline of thin sanity and control. And that means refusing outright what Raven is insisting on. She would feel it if Lexa was alive, and she feels nothing.

She sighs and looks down at the dirt on her boots and then at Abby and then Roan and then back at Raven. None of them can be sure, and everything is threatening to overwhelm her. Never mind them, and what they hope for, she can’t dissuade them—but she doesn’t have to listen.

“I would know if she were alive. She’s not.”

“Clarke—“

“Raven, don’t do this. I’ve already lost everything.”

* * *

Abby enters Clarke’s room without knocking, and just stands there, her arms behind her back. She’s calm, and she knows what’s coming

Clarke barely looks up from where she’s slouched into the couch, and Abby waits. She’ll wait as long as she needs to.

Clarke tries to ignore her because maybe she’ll leave, but after ten minutes of agonizing silence she finally just  _explodes_ , "Why are you alive?"

Abby steps forward and says, “Because of Lexa. I’m alive because Lexa took my hand and shielded me from the last stand EMP—the pulse explosion. We went—we went through some kind of dimensional barrier, we just stepped through—there was an ocean, and a tree—a tree the size of several worlds. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She reaches out her hand.

"Don't fucking touch me," Clarke snaps at her, and Abby pays no attention and instead kneels in front of her daughter.

“Then it gets fuzzy,” Abby says, “then someone who looks very much like Raven took me away, told me where you all were. She did ask if I wanted to come. I said yes, Clarke. I would always say yes.”

“But you abandoned Lexa.”

“To find you. She asked me to.” 

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, _"God_ ,” before resting her forehead in her hands and rocking forward.

Abby says nothing for a long moment, and then, “You need to believe Raven. And you need to believe me. Whatever Lexa is now is as real as she was when she was Commander.”

“What?” Clarke snarls, “Incorporeal? Dead? Strung up on that tree—should I feel grateful?”

Abby straightens and says, "She sent me back. I’ve told you everything I know. Raven has told you what—" 

Clarke's smile is sharp and bitter. "I don’t _feel_ her, mom,” she takes the Flame in her hands, “I would feel it if she—

“I trust Raven.”

“Of course you do.”

Abby sits back on her heels and laughs, she can’t help it, “You’re going to judge me because I found someone I love? Jake is gone, Clarke. That’s between us—him and me. What Raven is to me—is _absolutely_ none of your business. You’re my kid, not my—“

“Wait.” Clarke holds her hand up, “you love her?”

Abby’s eye roll is one for the ages. “Yes,” she mumbles.

“Okay, that’s cool.” Clarke puts a hand over her face, trying not to blush. “I didn’t know that. She told me— but—“

“Clarke,” Abby flinches, and her tone is slightly hilarious, “grow up.”

“Everyone I love dies.” Clarke says it flatly like it’s just a fact, and Abby is about to point out that Finn was a dipshit but then, “Why would this be any different? That’s how this works," Clarke whispers, and then her entire face crumples.

Abby’s heart convulses, and she’s cursing Lexa wildly to herself. If the Commander ever _does_ show up she’s going to kill her all over again.

"Oh, baby," she sighs.

* * *

Lincoln gets a horse ready for Clarke, and Abby _literally_ packs her a lunch.

“Mom.”

“What?”

* * *

She’s two days out, and she stops at dusk, slides off her horse and crouches by a stream so they both can drink, and for the first time she doesn't smell acrid smoke, she doesn't smell blood, and she doesn't smell the vapid, toneless air of a virtual reality. She scents Lexa, and her skin burns where Lexa had touched her, and the flush of her desires, and the fragrance rises up around her from the earth and the water.

She reels back from where she bent towards the stream and staggers against the trunk of a great rough-barked redwood tree, and she embraces it frantically. She clings to it until her vision clears, unprepared for any of it.

Even the few people she questioned along the way, merchants, farmers, lone travelers—and one or two of them had told her odd things, a vision here, a sighting there, odd stories of things that shouldn’t be—they realize who they're talking to and look at her with such sadness and pity that she stops hoping again, and is about to turn back.

Her fingers brush the light mist and tears from her cheek, and she shakes her head violently. It’s just the smell of rain on the grass; it’s only because she’s out in the open under the sky, alone. That’s all it is. Her friends are safe, and one day, somehow, she would be too.

She rips the Flame from her neck and stares at it, exhausted, her thoughts incoherent. If Lexa won’t speak to her, (stubborn, shy and so infuriating) she’ll have to do it. She gasps like she's drowning and then goes very quiet, and stares furiously at the thing, and sends herself out through the Flame and into the universe.

* * *

“Alright, where are we off to today? Since we’re never going to go to the _obvious_ place. Because you’re stupid. Since we’re just wandering around…” Her First stops giving her shit abruptly because she’s sitting frozen, all the color drained from her face—looking like someone just kicked her in the gut.

Anya tries again, terrified, _“seken.”_

“Anya, she’s here. She’s called.”

Anya is flummoxed, “You were waiting _for her?_ What is wrong with you?”

"Now do you understand?" Lexa laughs outright at the look on Anya's face, "she had to decide.”

* * *

Clarke wakes from a dead sleep. She hears her name in the dream, but wakes to nothing and staggers under the weight of violent distress, appalled all over again at the ravages of her world, her life, and her heart without Lexa. She is dying. She must look like death again, like _Azgeda_. She wants to end it.

_Where are you?_

She's awake in a clearing, and it's not where she had put her packs down and spread her bedding when she went into a fitful, dreadful sleep.

There is no small fire beside her. Her horse is with her; she can hear him in the pitch shifting restlessly, spooked. A rain is falling. It is the season for it, and she thanks Raven for the hundredth time for the warm, waterproof cloak she’s fashioned for her when Clarke told them she was leaving.

The moon is risen, and she blinks against the dark ink of the night and holds her hand up, the sharp contrasting light bleaching her skin, rendering it immortal. And she is so broken and so sad. All her strength is finally gone. She is alone with only a voice in a dream, and she waits for death. She hopes her horse will make its way back to his city. Because the city was never hers; perhaps it was for one night, and even then it was only shared.

She looks up suddenly at a twig-crack, and a twilit form shapes itself from out of the darkness, pausing and materializing until it starts to move slowly towards her. Even the sounds of the earth quiet, and the planet slows in its movements across the stars, and the rain hisses against the leaves. And Clarke is drowning with feelings she has shut out, destroyed, exiled. And the shadow of the deepest wish of her soul and all her lives moves towards her with increasing speed.

“You would never, in a million years, allow anyone to hear you,” Clarke whispers, “if you didn’t want to be heard.”

Before she can rise fully and stumble forward, she's caught up in strong arms, and held desperately against a real, beating heart as wild as her own.

They do not move, not at first, they can’t. They've always been too much for both of them, too vast and overwhelming, their abundance spills out for all of them and their considerable spirits are hunting, ready to spring forward at a word.

It’s Lexa who sobs first, whispering incoherently and holding Clarke as close as she can under her cloak without any other movement, and Clarke can't speak otherwise—too shaken and terrified to form words, because if she does Lexa will vanish back into the underworld and break this undying moment. And then Clarke finally, finally breathes out a shaking, stuttering simple prayer of astonishment and leans her head against Lexa’s cheek and weeps like a small child.

* * *

Lexa’s face in the moonlight is no different from any of the memories Clarke has of her, but it is uncanny, and not of this world. The green of her eyes is what Clarke holds to, otherwise this isn’t true, and the light spilling over the smooth planes of her face is just a vision and renders Lexa frightening and unfamiliar. Clarke has no idea what Lexa sees in her. They will always be terrifying to the other; neither of them will have it any other way.

“It’s you.”

“Clarke.”

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

And, for the first time, Clarke looks full into Lexa’s face.

The night is dark, with deeper shadows, and Lexa is completely focused on Clarke. Clarke sees only peace, and a shyness too fragile to—Lexa’s face is a face of peace. That’s her first impression.

Lexa has never been kind, not in the way Clarke understands kindness. Lexa’s remove, her isolation as leader, is not necessary any longer as  _Heda_ , and it’s hard not to notice how  _gentle, how happy_  she looks.

Lexa gazes back at Clarke with genuine interest. There is humor in her eyes. There’s an air of enjoyment about Lexa, something in her face radiates a happiness that embraces Clarke, embraces the forest around them, the sky and the stars. She has an infectious confidence, an undeniable will and iron hold on her emotions—that hasn’t changed. And Clarke senses the hardness still at the core of her, the deadly ease of a warrior, and Clarke knows that Lexa—whatever she was before—is beyond comprehension now.

Clarke straightens her back. She has no weapons, and she doesn’t flinch at the Commander’s touch.

She stares as Lexa draws off her gloves, and grips the blade at her back. The blade has a bluish tinge, the same blue, the same blue—she's seen it before—her mind flashes to Raven's code, to impossible resurrections—there’s no way to deny what’s happened. Lexa has come back from death.

She draws the blade and hands it to Clarke. Lexa drops to one knee and holds Clarkes’s hand in hers.

"Clarke," she murmurs.

Clarke says nothing, too astonished to speak, until, "Is resurrection a Grounder thing? Because no one ever told us about this and—“

“It’s not a Grounder thing, no.” Lexa grins.

"Would you like to explain?" Clarke says, more harshly than she thought she would. But fuck it; this is weird.

Lexa is going to have to explain a ghost, who is now watching Clarke with open amusement.

Lexa laughs. She is  _Heda_ , will always be the Commander, so no harm will come to her from her own people.  _Skaikru_ , and Clarke most of all is a different story. The thought leaves Lexa aching.

“Lexa,” Clarke shouts from the behind the gate of her soul where she's been hiding. “Who set you free?”

* * *

Clarke feels Lexa’s lips on hers, and she reels.

Lexa’s hand slides under her shirt to find her stomach, her ribs, her breast. Her mouth slides over Clarke’s nipple and she bites down hard.

 _I will say my vows now before you’re gone again_ , Clarke thinks, remembering the oath of Fealty, the twelve great Clans watching her go to her knees for the Commander. Lexa’s countenance, carved out of steel and stone, listening to Clarke’s silence with her whole body. Clarke whispers her vows into Lexa’s ear; _I love you_. Her fingers undo the laces of her breeches and her tongue is in her mouth and her hand slips inside her body. _I love you._

She bites her bottom lip and Lexa gasps in her own language, and Clarke buries herself in her.

 _I love you_ , she thinks, _I love you_ , she says.

“Isn’t that good?” Lexa whispers, her warm breath brushes against Clarke's ear, as she guides her inside. “I love you, Clarke.”

Clarke’s vows matter, all of it matters; and only the heat of Lexa, her mouth on hers, with Clarke’s fingers, her hand, her wrist so deep inside her would make her forget any of it, anything she’s saying, because none of it matters except Lexa kissing her and urging her on, _I love you._ _There, just there. Yes, oh, my love._

 _I love you and will go on loving you_ _―_ _on my knees._

Clarke kneels and watches her come undone, and she knows, as clearly as Clarke knew Lexa had died, that Lexa is real and begging her to say and do anything she wants. Lexa is begging for her to say what she’s always said, even when she didn’t know the words. She says the vows she felt the moment they met. _You’re the on_ e.

“Yes,” Lexa says and shakes her head, a bit sadly perhaps. Clarke shifts closer.  
  
“Of course,” she said in little more than a whisper. She reached out to touch Lexa, and her hand doesn't pass through her—she's real. Clarke's hand passes through her a minute later and Lexa winks at her.  
  
“I can be either here or there. But Earth and my new body are both rich in meta-sphere fields,” she says, "Becca made sure of that. Raven did, actually. When she left the notebook."  
  
“Mm,” Clarke agrees, not having the slightest idea what she's talking about. “As long as you're alive and real.”  
  
Lexa smiles and her eyes gleam in the dim light. “I’m afraid I've only resurrected and been sent back to love you.”

Clarke doesn’t care what she’s saying; she loves Lexa more than anything on Earth. "Oh, shut up."

_I love you_

* * *

“You’ve been wounded.” Lexa touches a new scar over Clarke’s left eye and traces her finger down her face and jaw, over her kiss-bruised mouth. Clarke shivers and then goes still, her face still buried in Lexa’s neck.

“A skirmish,” Clarke says, embarrassed. “With Roan.”

Lexa closes her hand around Clarke’s neck and nudges her nose against Clarke’s jaw, “Shall I kill him?”

* * *

The three of them enter the rough corridor of trees, leading out of the pitch-dark, and dawn appears before them in the meadow. Frost limns the grasses and trees of the foothills. As they ride further, the air grows colder.

"I mean, I'm glad for it, Lexa." Anya muses, "Of course I am. I mean, you know, Death and now Life."

"Do I need to explain again?" Lexa keeps her eyes straight ahead.

"That would be nice, yes." Anya nods.

"You're not a whole different matter from what I am. We're both pieced together from our own genetic stock, we're human, still. From the AIs perspective, rebuilding a beautiful body and intriguing personality is much like a deep wound healing, or as salamander growing another appendage—it's somewhat more complex than that but that's generally it. Raven's become unstuck in time. Isn't that far more interesting?"

"Raven's what now?"

"Unstuck in time."

Only half-listening to the gentle bickering; and yeah, she needs to sit down with Raven and talk to her about this—numbness seeps into Clarke’s extremities and her face. Her breath curls in a white stream, drawn inward to lace her whole body and outwards to catch Lexa in it’s crystallized web. Lexa looks over at her and smiles.

“Where are we, _Heda_? It’s beautiful.”

“Where I passed the second test of my Conclave, Ambassador.”

Anya is going to barf, they’re both so—suddenly, she looks around wildly, “What? I’ve never—so this isn’t a legend.”

Lexa laughs, it’s a free and easy sound, “God, no. No, it is very real, Anya.”

“None of our people have visited here before,” Clarke says, pausing to look at Lexa over one shoulder. “We’ve mapped it, but the borders are—it’s weird, anyone who tries wakes up somewhere else, miles away.”

“Old magic.” Lexa nods.

“Oh,” Anya snorts, “Of course.”

Clarke’s breath catches, “Why are we here?”

“Look, _ai hodnes_.”

“Oh,” Anya mutters, “You little bastard.”

* * *

Clarke squints into the sun, the blinding blue of ice-melt and glacial refraction making it hard to see. And her vision clears soon enough. Standing in a little group is everyone she loves, her friends.

Raven comes straight over and Clarke just kind of marvels at her. The change in her has been the most apparent, the most obvious. There’s a peace to her now, a fulfillment of love and destiny will do that to someone, she guesses. She tries not to think too hard about that person being her mother.

And Raven looks back at Clarke with wide, delighted eyes, and Clarke supposes that if you follow your true love into death and beyond and you come back—you’re going to be changed in ways that have only been theorized about for millennia.

"I have something for you," Clarke takes the Flame in her hand and holds it up to the sun before handing it over to her friend. Raven peers at it, nonplussed. 

"There's no need for it, Raven." Lexa says, "None."

“Let me see it? They used to call science magic,” Sinclair crunches happily through the thin sheet of snow and ice on the ground towards them as Lexa slides off her horse; she reaches up for Clarke to come down from her saddle into her arms.

Sinclair shades his eyes from the rays and motes of snow and crystal light and sighs, as he takes the Flame from Raven and turns it over, “We’re a family, we can’t do anything without each other. The second code, the Flame, is an organic community, held together by our collective, our DNA codes and whatever metaphorical symbols you want to give them, whatever you want to call it: intuitions, our hope.” He smiles at Raven and then Clarke, “Lexa and I have been talking about some things.”

“When?” Clarke cocks a dangerous eyebrow.

“Just now. In the last few days. She’s been sending back information since she—“

Clarke smiles, because she really doesn’t give a shit what these nerds do anymore, and her eyes are alight with something Raven has never seen before. Happiness.

“Like, a thinking layer of the Earth.” Clarke nods sagely, not really paying any attention whatsoever.

“Are you self-medicating?” Jasper asks Clarke.

“No, asshole. I’m getting laid again.”

Octavia claps her hands together and comes right up to Clarke, all up in her face and into her personal space, “The self-pity shit was getting old,”

Roan pokes Clarke. She slugs him in the arm.

* * *

Lexa, for a moment in time, was forced to abandon herself. She became a code of digits, numbers running in loops and dataspheres, co-existing and subsumed in indecipherable, nonhuman planes of existence. She allows Clarke to lead her over to Abby. These are Clarke’s people, and now they are hers.

She bows her head formally to Clarke’s mother. Abby inclines her head in complete understanding.

Raven’s heart starts pounding when the landscape begins to change, and the air smells different. A breeze laden with the smell of salt and water almost blindsides her. She’s never experienced anything like it. Abby must notice because she comes out of her relaxed mood and reaches for Raven’s hand. 

The landscape, the _place and time_ , the Where and When are changing. And everyone looks to Lexa, who has just raised her hand lazily into the air.

“Don’t worry, we’re still in the ice fields, we’re still where we last stood, Time and Space are a little different here—every World has a stillpoint like this—but Abby has asked for something, and I wish to give it to her,” Lexa says and takes Clarke’s hand.

They start to walk and another few minutes they head down a small path of sand and high grass, and Raven notices horse tracks before she begins to feel giddy. Abby comes around and grabs her hand and leads her over a dune. And what Raven sees almost has her falling to her knees.

She’s been in space, she knows the Great Silence and Void, she knows about being small, infinitesimal, and kept alive only by a thin line tethered precariously to the Ark, but nothing— _nothing_ —has prepared her for the living vastness and the welcome home she’s experiencing right now.

Ever since her disabilities became drastic, ever since she lost her identity in suffering and grief—the reasons she wanted to kill herself and die into utopia—she’s only wanted one impossible thing—a near-religious yearning for wholeness and pain’s end. 

She does finally understand Jaha, perhaps better than any of them do. But there is nothing remotely like sadness or pain here on the beach as she looks at the ocean for the first time. What the wild, unfurling sea holds is the unthought-of, unlooked for promise of _all things fall apart, all things fade and all things renew. Alpha and Omega._ She’s looking at a landscape that’s all light, all temperature, all size, shape and time.

A little farther down the coastline stands a woman and a horse whose trail Raven realizes she noticed in the sand coming in.

Lincoln holds his hand up in greeting and shouts, and Octavia tumbles down the dunes and runs towards Indra because that’s who it is. Clarke and Lexa follow at a slower pace while the rest of them meander all over in wonder, charmed as hell.

Indra turns towards Octavia and Lincoln, both still in a joyful all-out run, and urges them on. Raven doesn’t think she’s seen these three smile like this, ever.

And it hits her. Raven knows what Abby did for her, she’s always known (she was there, for god’s sake), but they all would have done the same thing for each other. All of them. Not one of them would have watched or allowed the other to die without sacrificing themselves first. 

She wades into the water without thinking before she really does go down on her knees. Abby comes in right after her. The salt water is _freezing_ and whirls and eddies around her and her breath comes in sharp gasps. 

She dips her face under a wave and whoops as she comes up for air. Scrambling up, she charges in again and again under an infinite horizon, the sun just dips below and touches the outermost eastern skyline.

They swim and shout to each other—enveloped in a moving, iridescent sheet of living water, the living surface of the ocean welcomes them and they swim and swim and swim, and everyone comes in all at once, even Indra’s horse.

Raven grabs the magnificent animal’s mane and hauls herself up on his broad, strong back and good natured, awesome animal that he is—he swims with her.

* * *

Later, after the sunsets, Raven and Anya build a fire. Her friends are paired or tripled up under blankets and it’s kind of a pretty good bonfire. The spray of stars and the roar of the ocean keep conversation to a minimum. It’s nice to be quiet.

She’s standing a little away from the group watching the moonlight play against the waves. In all her life, she doesn’t think she’s seen a more beautiful sight. And then Abby comes up behind her and drapes a blanket around her shoulders and she realizes she’s wrong. She has seen something as beautiful and then she wants to die because holy crap is she lame. Because, gross. 

Raven opens her arms and Abby comes into the blanket and that’s it. Raven is officially fucked. She’s a goner. She doesn’t even care. 

“Thank you for the ocean,” she says, instead of anything remotely intelligent. 

“Raven Reyes,” Abby sighs, “You are a gigantic pain in the ass.”

Raven decides not to say anything else because she can’t even with herself right now. That was THE WORST and she’s never speaking again. 

“Stop being weird and kiss me,” Abby says.

That she can do, and she does for a very long time.

“Marry me?” Raven gasps when they come up for air, dizzy.

Abby stays totally quiet. Raven panics, “I mean, it’s After the End of the World, like for the 100th time, okay? And we survived and I almost lost you and we all became zombies and oh my god, the screaming, and blood—“

“I think you have to tell me you love me first,” Abby just looks at her and tilts her head. Raven feels legitimately like a toddler. “That’s, I think, how it works.”

It takes a full five minutes for Raven to get a handle on herself, and then, “Abby Griffin, you saved my life. We all saved each other. Thank you. I love you.”

“Yes.” And then Abby, just for her, leans into her and whispers into her ear a vow and prayer she loves most in the world besides the Traveler’s blessing,

_“Over every living thing which is to spring up, to grow, to flower, to ripen during this day say again the words: ‘This is my Body’. And over every death-force which waits in readiness to corrode, to wither, to cut down, speak again your commanding words which express the supreme mystery of faith: ‘This is my Blood’.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abby's vow written by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

**Author's Note:**

> I've lifted some dialogue from the show directly and then went off the rails. Disclaimers: Don't own. Not for Profit.


End file.
